


January Thaw

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 40,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fourth story in the Treatment series. House is, well, housebound at Gene and Sarah's place in the southern Adirondacks of New York. It's a new year-will he work on his issues? AU to S6. Angst, humor, some OC romance on the way eventually. Now revised and updated with expanded chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

**_. . . And my heart springs up anew,_ **

**_Bright and confident and true,_ **

**_And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew._ **

**_\--'I Who All The Winter Through,' Robert Louis Stevenson_ **

_January 8th_

Sarah put the first load of wash in the dryer and closed the door. From the other end of the house came the faint noise of a hammer at work. When she heard it, she couldn't help but smile. One week into the project, and Greg had practically taken it over. His eagerness had surprised her; she'd expected resistance, sullen silence, arguments despite his agreement to help out. Instead he'd thrown himself into the work. At the moment he was involved in the addition of bookshelves to the north wall. She'd tried to get him to consider the rental of a set of steps with rails from the local hardware store, mainly because she was worried about his balance issues.

"I'm not that decrepit yet!" he'd snapped at her.

"How about the little stepladder then?" she'd asked. "No rails, but it won't tip easily either."

Sarah knew he used it with great reluctance. As a thank you for his concession, she did her very best to leave him alone. _Let the man have some dignity_ , she thought. _Nagging will not help him open up_. She sighed and set the dryer for thirty minutes when the phone rang. She hurried to answer it; Gene might call once he reached Dallas, if he had time. But it was a friend from across the village who spoke on the other end.

"Hi Sare! Can I ask you a big favor?"

"Hey Marti. Sure, what's up?" Sarah wedged the phone between her neck and shoulder as she sorted colors and whites.

"Mom needs me to come down for the day. Dad's not doing well and we may have to move him to the hospice sooner than we expected." Marti sounded resigned. "I can't take Chelsea and the church daycare is still on holiday schedule, could you watch her for me? I should be back around suppertime."

"I'd love to," Sarah said. "Want me to swing by?"

"I can bring her over on the way, no problem." The relief in Marti's voice made Sarah smile. "Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, big and round with a hole in the middle," Sarah said. Marti chuckled.

"But sweet too. We'll be by in a half hour or so."

Sarah hung up and went to the back room. The bang of the hammer grew louder as she approached. It was interrupted by a clang and a muttered curse. She didn't enter, just stood on one side of the doorway and peeked in.

"Everything okay?" she asked in a neutral tone. Greg turned a bit, his finger still in his mouth. Fierce blue eyes glared down at her. He removed his finger to reveal a small cut. It bled freely but didn’t appear to be lethal.

" _Peachy_ ," he growled. "Whaddaya want?"

"Thought you'd like to know we'll have company shortly. Her name's Chelsea, she's brunette with hazel eyes and loves to have fun," Sarah said, enjoying herself. Greg's features brightened a bit.

"Is she stacked? You know, nice rack, decent booty?"

"Not really, no. But she does enjoy playing in the kitchen." Sarah gave him a salacious wink. "If you know what I mean."

Greg stared at her. “Huh,” he said, clearly suspicious but also intrigued. She sauntered away. Twenty minutes later, when Marti handed her four-year-old daughter over to Sarah and took her leave, the look on Greg's face was priceless.

"A _kid_. Great news, if you’re a pedophile." He stumped off. Sarah unzipped Chelsea's coat and gave the little girl a smile.

"It's so nice to have you visit," she said, and meant it. "Let's put your things away. Then we can decide what you'd like to do today."

"Makin’ cookies!" Chelsea hopped up and down with excitement, and Sarah laughed.

"Okay, we’ll bake some cookies. Maybe you could help me draw pictures later on too, after lunch. We need new ones for the fridge."

"I can help," Chelsea said as she took off her hat and mittens. "I color good."

Soon enough they were in the kitchen. Chelsea had a clean white tea towel pinned around her small frame, and Sarah wore her apron.

"What kind should we make?" Sarah flipped through the pages of a big Betty Crocker cookbook with Chelsea at her side. The little girl pointed to a picture of a plateful of sugar cookies. "Good choice. You get the butter and I'll get the flour."

Soon enough the mixer held a batch of dough ready to roll out and bake. "We’ll divide it in half. That way you can take some home for your family," Sarah said. "What kind of shapes do you want to use?"

Chelsea considered the cutters spread out on the tabletop. "Star . . . an' stocking . . . an' the gingerbread man."

"Those are for Christmas." Greg stood in the doorway. The expression on his face was unreadable. For a moment Sarah saw him as a small boy, alone and silent as he watched other children play and laugh.

"Greg, this is Chelsea Butterman," she said. "Chelsea, this is my friend Greg House. He's staying with me and Uncle Gene for a while."

Chelsea regarded Greg for a few moments. "You have a boo-boo."

"I smashed my finger with a hammer," he said. "That makes me a klutz, but at least I know what time of year it isn't."

“What’s a klutz?” Chelsea wanted to know. Greg rolled his eyes.

“Kid, if you have to ask you’ll never know.” He shifted his stare to Sarah. “She wants to make Christmas cookies and it’s January. Her mental development leaves something to be desired.”

"Oh, I don’t know. There are stars out every clear night," Sarah said, and hid a smile. "I wear stockings now and then all year long."

"You wear Christmas stockings," Greg said, his intent to mock plain. He gave Chelsea a sharp glance when she giggled, then relaxed a little when he saw she hadn’t laughed at him, just what he’d said. Sarah knew a moment of sadness. _He automatically assumes laughter is meant to be cruel._ She set the feeling aside and gave him a puzzled look, eyebrows raised.

"Who doesn't?" she asked, her tone nonchalant. "I like the ones with gold sequins the best."

"Figures you'd be a frustrated stripper." Greg leaned against the doorjamb and looked down his nose at her. "Explain the gingerbread man."

"He . . . came back home after he ran away at Christmas," Sarah said. Improvisation wasn’t her strong suit. "He didn't want to get eaten." Chelsea giggled again and Greg groaned.

"Yeesh. Enabler." He straightened. “Need some sustenance."

Sarah nodded. "We just need to put the dough into the fridge to chill, then we'll get something to eat."

Lunch turned out to be sandwiches and apple slices, enjoyed in front of the fire as they sat on a tablecloth, picnic style. Well, she and Chelsea ate there. Greg declined to join them and took his ham on rye  with him into the office, along with a beer.

"He's a cranky-pants," Chelsea said. She munched an apple slice. "Why's he like that? Is it 'cause his leg hurts?"

"Sometimes." Sarah sipped her iced tea. "People are different. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors, and they can be grumpy or funny or everything in between. That's just how they are, like you and me."

Chelsea absorbed this information without comment. She was a child with a lively and capacious intelligence; you rarely had to tell her anything twice, and she was perfectly able to arrive at her own rather astute conclusions.

"My Pop-pop's gonna go to heaven," she said after a moment. Sarah nodded.

"I understand."

"Does he have to?" Chelsea's bottom lip quivered. "I don't want him to go."

"He's a good grandpa, isn't he?" Sarah said softly. "I don't think he wants to leave you, sweetie."

"What's wrong with him?" The little girl came over to Sarah and climbed into her lap. Sarah snuggled her in, her arms around the small form.

"His heart doesn't work right anymore."

"Can't the doctor fix it?"

"His doctors tried, but sometimes things can't be fixed." Sarah smoothed a dark curl from the pale forehead. "When that happens, it's time for the sick person to die." She hesitated, not sure how much Marti and Rob had told their daughter. “Do you know what that means?”

"It means he’s goin’ to heaven," Chelsea said.

"Okay," Sarah said. "How about you curl up on the couch for a little while? I'll tell you a story."

Chelsea made it halfway through 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears' before she fell asleep, thumb in mouth. Sarah eased the little girl from her lap, tucked her under the cotton throw, put more wood on the fire to keep the room warm, and went into the kitchen to finish the laundry and check her email.

She was in the middle of an article about El Nino years sent by her storm-chasing partner when Greg came in. He put his plate in the dishwasher and rinsed out the bottle, took another from the fridge. He paused when he passed by the table. "You really did a number on that kid."

Sarah finished a paragraph and looked up at him. "Care to elaborate?"

"All that 'he's going to heaven' crap. From what I heard the man's got a bad ticker. You know when it gives out he's dead--end of story. No heaven, no hell, just sky." He tilted his head. "Hmm. Someone could make a good song out of that."

"Chelsea's parents are Christian," Sarah said. “They’ll teach her what they believe. It’s not my job to tell her anything different unless they give permission.”

"You're supporting their delusions just because they believe in the Big Bronze Age Book of Fairy Tales." Greg gave her a hard stare. “I happen to know you don’t, so why you’re—“

"If Chelsea comes to me someday and asks about my personal beliefs, I'll tell her. Until then, I have no business interfering with the way Marti and Rob raise their child."

"You’ll back a lie because it's convenient for the adults." He gave her a contemptuous look. "That's even worse."

"I didn’t lie to her. She told me what she’s been taught, I made non-committal noises. Anyway, I may not believe in heaven, but I think our spirit survives," Sarah said quietly. “I’ve got my reasons, I don’t expect you to understand or accept them.”

"Tomayto, tomahto. That kid will be a mess when Grandpa kicks the bucket and it'll be your fault." He limped away before she could answer him.

Two hours later Chelsea was awake and the first batch of slightly lumpy, misshapen cookies had made it from the roll-out mat to the baking sheet without mishap. "When they’re baked and cooled we'll pack these up and you can take them home to Mom and Dad," Sarah said, amused at the amount of pink and green crystals scattered over the tabletop.

"After we make more, let's go outside an' play," Chelsea said. "It's snowin'."

Sarah glanced out the window. Her throat tightened. "So it is."

"We can make a snowman. You don't have one. We do. We have four." Chelsea stuck the stocking cutter into the dough. She held the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she pushed down.

"Sounds like a plan," Sarah said, and suppressed a shiver. "You can show me how to do it."

"You _never_ made a snowman?" The little girl's astonishment was plain. “But you’re old!”

Sarah shook her head. "Nope, never did. Where I grew up they don't usually get a lot of snow like you do here."

"Did you live in Florida?" Chelsea put a crooked stocking on the baking sheet and dumped a generous handful of pink sugar over it. "Mom-mom Myers lives there now."

"No, not Florida. I lived in a place called Oklahoma." Sarah added a star to the sheet and sprinkled it with green sugar. "In some places it's flat like a tabletop, and in the summer there are big thunderstorms. One June when I was your age, pieces of ice called hail came out of the sky. A big chunk hit me in the shoulder."

Chelsea's eyes were wide. "Did it hurt?"

"A little bit." _A lot_ , Sarah thought. _The damn thing was the size of a tennis ball. No one even noticed the bruise it gave me with all the others Dad left. Yay for childhood memories._ "So how _do_ you make a snowman?"

The technical aspects of construction occupied them as the next two batches baked, and then into cleanup. As Sarah dressed Chelsea in her outdoor gear, she kept her mind on the task at hand—not too difficult with a four-year-old eager to play.

"Let's go!" Chelsea jumped up and down, her impatience plain.

"Okay—I'll be right behind you," Sarah said. "Stay in the front yard, don't go down to the lane." She opened the door and the little girl ran out to dive headfirst into a snowdrift. Sarah swallowed on a dry throat and took her parka out of the closet. It was only then that the fear she'd battled for over half an hour finally broke free. Her hands shook as she tugged on her coat and tried to zip it closed. _I can do this,_ she thought, and jumped when someone spoke.

"What's wrong with you?"

Greg stood a few feet away, his vivid gaze wary.


	2. Chapter 2

"What's wrong with you?" Greg stares hard at Sarah. She's pale, and her hands shake as she tries to zip up her coat.

"I'm okay," she says too quickly.

"No you're not. You're scared to death."

"I'm fine." She looks down as she tugs on a pair of mittens. "Chelsea and I will be out in the front yard. She’s gonna teach me how—how to make a snowman."

He can’t believe what he’s just heard. "You insist on this stupidity, you . . ." He wants to shake her. "You give too much to everyone. You expect too much from yourself. That kid's day won't be ruined if you don't make a damn snowman."

"The only way to deal with an obstacle is to go through it," she says, and pulls a really hideous mustard yellow stocking cap onto her head. Carroty curls stick out in all directions.

"There should be a monster truck option." He knows he should just walk away; she’s an idiot, but he can’t stop her from what she plans to do. "Trying to conquer your fears is pointless. Everyone's got a phobia or two, it's healthy."

That makes her laugh, though it sounds hollow to his ears. "I thought Wilson was good at rationalization." She turns away. "Back in a bit." The word 'bit' comes out in two soft, quick syllables: _biy-yit_. Sarah opens the front door and goes out into the snow, shoulders hunched under her thick coat. She disappears in a swirl of fat flakes before she pulls the door closed behind her. Greg watches her. After a few moments he returns to the office.

Twenty minutes later, he has to admit he's worried. "This is _stupid_ ," he grumbles as he climbs off the stepladder. "She's an adult, she knows how to take care of herself. She'll be fine _._ " And still he finds he is headed to the front hall. He takes his old North Face parka from the closet and puts it on, followed by gloves and a thick wool cap, and goes outside, forced to move with care because he doesn't have his cane. It's useless in a situation like this.

He opens the front door and is engulfed in what looks like a giant snow-globe. The whole world is white; it's difficult to see where the ground ends and the sky begins. He flounders over the thick drifts at the edge of the drive and tries to peer through the curtain of flakes. It is sound that tells him finally where they are. He hears the kid laugh and Sarah's voice raised in query.

"Like this?"

"Yeah!"

He follows the words until both parties suddenly pop into view. Sarah has attempted to roll a snowball and made a pretty poor job of it, while the kid packs snow onto a lopsided mound the size of a basketball. Both of them are covered with a thick layer of fresh flakes.

"That's all you have done?" he says. "Pathetic."

Sarah straightens and wipes her face. "Help out or shut up," she says quietly. There is a definite edge to her words, but she isn't angry at him. It is more than obvious she hates every moment of this and yet she's here, to face her demons. He watches her for a moment, then bends down and makes a big hard ball, begins to roll it. It's tough because of his leg, but he manages it all the same. A few minutes later he has the base for an enormous snowman ready to go.

"Now we do the middle part!" The kid hops all over the place, excited and happy. Greg sighs and starts another snowball, rolls it in fresh snow. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sarah do the same. When he plops the second section atop the base, she brings over a head the size of a bowling ball and jams it onto the middle. He's sure she'll call it quits then, but she only says "We need some sticks for the arms, don't we?"

They spend an inordinate amount of time in a search for small tree branches, pebbles, and something to use for a nose. While Sarah and the kid do the decorations, he makes a smaller snowman--or to be more accurate, a snowwoman. This one has breasts.

"We can't leave the poor guy out here alone," he says when Sarah looks at his work, brows raised. "It would be cruel."

"No nipples," she says, but for the first time he hears a hint of something like amusement under the stern tone.

"Killjoy," he grouses. When she moves away he makes a loose snowball and launches it at her, but pulls the throw so it isn't too fast or hard. The snowball smacks into her left boob and explodes. She's so surprised she falls backward and ends up on her ass in a drift, her eyes as big as saucers. The kid cracks up.

"Oops. S-sorry," Greg says with complete insincerity, and snickers. Sarah looks up at him. Then she reaches out and gathers a handful of snow, starts to pack it. Greg backs away, aware suddenly that he might have just started something he will regret. Too late; a snowball hits him mid-chest. The kid cheers, Sarah laughs and the battle is on.

A short time later they all troop into the house, covered with snow, half-frozen and thoroughly entertained. Wet coats, hats and mittens are removed and put in the dryer while everyone bundles into clean sweaters and fresh socks. Then they go into the kitchen for hot cocoa and cookies. It's so horribly cliche that his blood sugar should be sky-high, but somehow it's actually not too bad to sit with a hot drink in one hand and a really ugly cookie in the other, listening to Sarah and the kid joke around. Of course he slipped a healthy slug of bourbon into his cocoa—there’s only so much sentimentality he can stand without some kind of fortification to help out. Wilson can't learn about this though. The news would be all over PPTH in five minutes flat, with that _yenta_ ready to flap his jaws to everyone in sight. _Jesus, I'd never live it down. It'd be worse than a pink bunny suit from Aunt Clara._

"We need to make a fort!" The kid takes a slurp of her unfortified cocoa. She vibrates like a live wire, and her big hazel eyes sparkle with excitement (and massive amounts of sugar, no doubt). Greg tries to remember what it was like to run and jump and play all day without tiredness or pain, but at the moment the only thing he can recall is his father's voice: _Don't track mud into your mother's kitchen again or you'll scrub the entire floor. I won't tell you twice, Gregory._

"I've never made one of those either," Sarah says. "Maybe when Uncle Gene comes home in a couple of days we can do that. I'll ask your parents if you can stay over."

"Great." Greg rolls his eyes. "Can't wait."

To his surprise the kid giggles. He peers at her. "What's your name again?"

"Chelsea!" She bites into a cookie. "An' you're Unca Greg."

"I'm nobody's uncle," he informs her.

"Courtesy," Sarah says. He gives her a sharp glance. "You're a courtesy uncle, I'm a courtesy auntie."

"Auntie Sarah!" Chelsea finishes her cup of cocoa. "I wanna color."

"Cool," Sarah says with a smile. This time she means it, he can tell. The little dimple in her cheek shows for a moment. “Be right back.”

When she returns Greg expects a stack of coloring books, but instead she brings out a roll of butcher paper and the biggest box of crayons he's ever seen. The table is cleared, the paper rolled out and cut into big squares, and the crayons plunked down within easy reach.

"Lou always orders an extra roll of paper for me," Sarah says. "Sometimes we tape it to the walls and do murals, but today it's warmer in the kitchen."

Greg glances at her as she speaks. She looks better, calmer, but she still struggles with the experience of cold, he can sense it. He lets his mind slide into diagnostic mode and checks out her thyroid. It doesn't look enlarged or nodular, though he can't be sure without palpation; her skin isn't dry or paler than it should be, and her hair doesn't show signs of thinning. Still, some tests wouldn't go amiss, just to make sure things are okay on the TSH/iodine uptake front.

"I'm gonna draw a snow fort," Chelsea announces. She pulls a purple crayon from the box.

"Excellent choice," Sarah says. She has a gray crayon and has started to outline a snowman. Her hand is deft and sure, and moves over the paper with assurance. Within seconds there is a faithful representation of the scene outside. In the meantime Chelsea draws an enormous purple square with wobbly sides.

"Kid, the only way snow turns purple is if you pour grape juice on it," Greg says, and Chelsea giggles. From the look on Greg’s face it’s clear he was serious, but he’s amused by the little girl’s delight, though he hides it well.

"Snow has all kinds of colors in it, including purple," Sarah says. "I should show you some of my books on snowflakes. They're amazing." She gives him a swift glance. "You're not going to color with us?"

"I'm fifty-something," he says. "No one that old colors anymore."

"Pfft. Your argument is specious," Sarah says, and chooses a white crayon.

"What's 'spee-shush' mean?" Chelsea abandons purple for neon orange.

"She's saying I'm full of it," Greg says. "I'm not, she's just saying it."

"Coloring's fun," Chelsea says.

"God, now they're ganging up on me," he complains.

"I didn't say you had to color, I just said your reply lacks logic." Sarah shades the snowman with small strokes, gives it dimension and depth. "If you don't want to—"

Greg snatches up a piece of paper. Sarah looks over, gives him a warm smile. She gestures at the crayons with her free hand. "Feel free."

"You need a color," Chelsea says.

"Nitpicker." He looks over the box and chooses one at random. "Burnt umber . . .  no one even knows what umber means anymore. And it's ugly too." He stuffs it back into the box and finds another crayon. This one is cobalt. He tests it. It's a dark saturated blue with a faint charcoal-gray tint to it. He colors in a corner of the square, and secretly enjoys the feel of wax against crisp paper. Even better, there are no lines to fence in the color. He can put it wherever he likes.

"That's one of my favorites," Sarah says. "Cobalt’s a strong deep color. Not many people like it, but it’s beautiful." She gives her sketch a few final touches and sets it aside, takes another piece of paper. "You want a dragon, Chelsea?"

The little girl does a dance in her chair. "Dragon! Dragon!"

"You are such a suckup," Greg says. He watches Sarah begin the drawing. She is already focused on her work as she tucks a curl behind her ear. A few minutes later she hands the sketch to Chelsea. It's a dragon all right, dark bronze and gold with hazel eyes. Little wisps of purple smoke rise up from its nostrils. It bears a strong resemblance to the recipient of the drawing. With just a few strokes of color, Sarah has managed to catch the child's effervescence and intelligence. It's evidence of his analyst's redoubtable powers of observation, and a reminder to be cautious around her. She sees deeply and far too well.

They are all redeemed from further mawkishness by the arrival of Chelsea's mother. In the mild chaos of the little girl’s preparation to leave, Greg is conscious of several speculative glances sent his way. When he and Sarah are alone he says, "You know it'll be all over town now that I'm living here with you."

Sarah continues to put away the crayons. "Yes," she says. She's too unconcerned; this isn't news to her.

"You've already heard rumors."

"There's been gossip going around since October that Gene and I are in an open marriage and you're some kind of kept man." 

"Great idea," he says, and Sarah laughs. "But someone still trusts you enough to babysit?" He watches her closely.

"We've let it be known that you're a friend staying with us for a while," she says. "It's inevitable that some people will believe there's more going on. That's human nature. Anyone who knows us well knows better."

"You didn't tell them I'm your patient." He is surprised by that.

"That's not for me to divulge," she says. "It's up to you."

He relaxes a little. He's pretty sure having the label 'mental patient' plastered all over him will make life in a small town unbearable. No way does he plan to tell anyone the real reason why he's here.

"I think we should explore the possibilities this arrangement offers us," he says, unable to resist a test. Sarah gives him a dry look.

"You would. One pirate in my life is enough, thanks."

"You've said that before," he says.

"And I'll probably say it again," she says. "Could you grab the tape out of that drawer for me please?"

She actually hangs the kid's hideous picture on the refrigerator. "It's like looking at a giant purple jello cube gone mutant," Greg says. "It's gonna ruin my appetite."

"Don't be a weenie," Sarah says on a laugh. "How about chicken stew and fresh Italian rolls tonight? I could use some comfort food."

Later on, when he is in the living room in the depths of a thoroughly delectable 'L Word' marathon, he hears Sarah on the phone in the kitchen. It's obvious she's called Gene. Her quiet voice trembles just a little.

"Hey honey . . . you'll never guess what happened. I went outside today. We made a snowman." There is a pause. ". . . It was fun. Yeah, it really was."

Greg listens to the sound of someone who’s done her best to walk through an insurmountable impasse, and keeps his thoughts to himself.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_January 16th_

_Her skin is like silk, warm and soft, and her dark hair falls all around her face as she leans in to kiss him. Her lips brush his and he gives a soft moan of need, reaches up to bring her closer, but she pulls back and shakes her head, and gives him a mysterious smile. He tries again to grasp her arms but his hands close on empty air . . ._

Greg wakes with a start. His dream fades even as he tries to keep it in his mind. He rolls on his side to relieve a truly enormous erection, winces as his bad leg cramps, and opens his eyes in time to see some kind of bug disappear between his pillow and the wall. It's small and black—a beetle or a spider, he can't tell. A vivid memory of the dream woman's lips as they touched his comes back, and he scrambles out of bed. Now he knows where _that_ originated.

" _Gah._ " Disgusted and deflated, he scrubs his mouth and searches for his bathrobe, pulls it on over his filthy sweats and tee shirt and wrenches open the bedroom door. Sunlight hits his eyes and he's tempted to hiss like a vampire. Instead he limps to the kitchen in search of coffee.

There is indeed fresh brew ready, along with some sausage and eggs in the oven to keep warm. He pours a cup of joe and sips it, grateful for the heat and slightly harsh roasted taste. After a few swallows his belly wakes up to the fact it's empty. He fixes a small plate of food, grabs a fork and, as he balances the load with care, heads to the living room.

He's just flipped through the channels for the third time when the front door bangs open and shut. Sarah comes in, a big wad of mail clutched in her hand. "Good morning," she says with what Greg considers to be excessive cheer. He squints at her for a moment, then turns his attention back to the tv.

When it becomes clear there is nothing on, he clicks off the television and limps into the kitchen. Sarah sits at the table, the inevitable cup of tea by her right hand. In front of her is a stack of what appear to be seed catalogs. There are lurid explosions of color on the covers—bright red tomatoes, kelly green beans, pure white radishes. She pages through one with a rapt expression on her face. Greg bends down to peer at the information.

"You haven’t looked outside lately.” It’s a purely rhetorical statement, of course. He scratches his backside. "Not a good time for gardens, unless you're a total nut case who likes digging through snow drifts to plant stuff that won’t grow because it’s _fucking_ _winter_."

Sarah puts down the catalog and lifts her head to look at him. It's a thorough going-over that takes him in from top to bottom. He glares at her; he feels out of sorts and antsy, and ready to pick a fight.

"You've got a really bad case of cabin fever," she says after a few moments. "Why don't you get cleaned up and come into town with me? We can go to the auction and see if there's anything we can use in the office." She sets the catalogs aside and stands up. "The roads are clear and it isn't too cold. We'll take Minnie Lou. You haven't met her yet, this will be a good chance to get acquainted."

"I need a formal introduction to ride in a truck." He rolls his eyes. "Only to be expected from a redneck. I bet you've even written a song about it."

"Her," Sarah corrects with a slight smile. "Hence the name. Meet me in the living room in half an hour."

The whole time he brushes his teeth and digs around for clean jeans and a sweater in a mountain of unfolded laundry, he tries to find some reason not to go. But half an hour later he waits with some impatience in the living room, coat and gloves on, ready to get out of the house and see some new sights, even if it's just small town stuff.

Sarah comes in from outside and stamps her feet on the mat. "Truck's warmed up," she says. "Let's go."

He follows her out the door and stops in absolute shock on the front step. There in the drive is a '55 Jimmy pickup that’s so much like the one from his dream of the white tornado, the long straight highway and the old black woman, he can’t believe it. He stares at it and tries to breathe normally, because he feels like someone's sucker-punched him. _This can't be,_ he thinks in something close to panic. _No way. No way!_

"What's wrong?" Sarah pauses as she opens the driver's side door. "Are you--"

"I'm fine," he snaps, and forces himself to move forward. The truck is even the same color—dark green with a cream top; the GMC logo gleams on the hood. _Must have seen it back in October,_ he thinks as he opens the door and climbs in. _Even one small glimpse out of the corner of my eye—or maybe there's a picture somewhere in the house—_

"Something's not right," Sarah says. There is genuine worry in her soft voice. With an effort Greg pulls himself together and shuts the door.

"Let's go," he says, and won't look at her. After a moment she puts the truck in drive and they're on their way to town.

He waits for her to question him. Wilson would be beside himself at this point; he'd never let up until he got answers. Sarah says nothing though. After a few minutes Greg can stand it no longer.

"Admit it. You're dying to interrogate me," he says.

"No," she says.

"Yeeees.” Of course she's lying.

"You said nothing's wrong. There's no reason for me to ask you anything." She slows down for an icy patch in the road.

"Very clever," he says. "Taking a mental patient at his word. How's that working out for you?"

"Either tell or don't. Your choice," Sarah says. "But just so you know, you looked . . . stricken. Scared."

"Not scared," he says quickly. "Shocked would be more accurate. I didn't expect an antique."

She spares him a wry glance. "Minnie's only four years older than you."

"It isn't age that counts, it's mileage," he says. "My odometer hasn't rolled over yet. I doubt your heap can make the same claim."

Sarah sighs a little. "If you want to talk, just talk. Don't mock my truck."

He is silent for a few moments, and debates the issue in his head. Finally he says, "This thing was in my dream."

She doesn't jump on his revelation. She considers what he's said, and in that moment he understands why he spoke. He knows she will listen. He won’t use the t-word; she hasn’t earned his trust, not yet. But he does know she hears what he says, and doesn’t just wait to talk.

"What else is bothering you?" she asks at last. He looks away, unwilling to give her more. "Okay. It can wait till we get home, if you like."

Greg nods once. He'll figure out how this happened, because he knows there's a logical explanation. Then he'll tell Sarah about some of it, enough to give him some credit in his 'open and honest' account with her.

By dint of long practice, he's got his emotions locked down by the time they roll into town. The village is a little bigger than he remembers from his one nighttime visit back in October. A single stoplight, post office, combined feed store and grocery, pharmacy, church, pizza shop, library, and bar, all arranged around a small square with statues and park benches. Sarah pulls around behind the feed store. There is a pole building in an open field with dozens of trucks and cars parked in a gravel lot that’s been plowed in a haphazard fashion.

Sarah drops him off at the front door. He heads inside, blinks as the high albedo of winter sunlight is replaced by flat cool fluorescence. While his eyes adjust he sees the building is full of furniture, bric-a-brac and junk of all kinds. _Estate sales_ , he thinks. _Might be a few treasures but they'll be snapped up fast._ Still, the sheer amount of odds and ends intrigues him.

Slowly he moves deeper into the pile and ignores appliances and knickknacks. A few stacks of books yield nothing of interest. Just ahead he sees what they've come for—desks, chairs, tables—but the choices are limited there too. He brushes past someone and almost loses his balance when he is pushed away.

"Hey!" It's a young woman, her thin face dark with annoyance. "Keep your hands to yourself!"

"I didn't even touch you," he says in protest.

"Yeah right, then how come you grabbed my ass?"

He takes a good look at her. "You'd have to have one first," he says. She glares at him.

"If you’d broken this you would have paid for it," she says. He glances at the lamp in her hands and shrugs.

"Not much of a threat, considering that thing is a piece of crap."

"It needs a new cord and socket and a good cleaning," she snaps. "So do you."

He snorts in amusement before he can stop himself, and takes a closer look at his antagonist. She's thin, no rack or hips to speak of, and her features are too angular for beauty. She's on the leggy side, though not all that tall; her skin has a slight olive cast to it, and her long dark hair is in dire need of a stylist’s help. But it's her eyes that catch his attention. They’re gorgeous, deep green with tiny flecks of gold, framed by thick black lashes. At the moment they are also filled with profound dislike. Well, nothing new there. He's seen that look many a time over the years from all sorts of people, most of them women.

"Do I pass inspection?" she asks, heavy on the sarcasm.

"Nope," he says, and walks away. He half-expects the lamp to crash into the back of his head, but nothing happens.

Eventually he catches up with Sarah. She’s in front of a writing desk, an elegant piece made of oak with a leather pad and crystal inkwell tucked into the front drawer.

"Totally impractical," Greg says, though he likes it too. She nods, but her small fingers caress the top gently before she turns to another item.

They examine the offerings—three more desks, half a dozen chairs and two tables—and decide none of them are suitable. Either they're too big or too fragile.

"There will be plenty of other sales," Sarah says as they walk to the entrance. "We'll find what we need eventually."

They are at the doors when Greg checks his pocket. "Dammit. I must have left my phone at one of the displays. I'll meet you outside." He slips back in and finds the auctioneer’s assistant. “I want to buy an item at the reserve plus ten percent . . .”

A short time later they are parked by the common and headed for the feed store. "Gonna get some stuff for starting seeds," Sarah says. "See you in half an hour."

He opts to cruise the grocery. It's easier to walk when he's behind a cart anyway. The store is small but there's a nice amount of variety on the shelves. He ends up with a stash of chips, jerky and candy, a gallon of chocolate milk, a hefty stack of tabloids and a pack of Marlboros. He doesn’t smoke much anymore, the combination of nicotine and narcotic have caused some nasty bouts of nausea, but the urge has made itself known a few times over the last week.

He’s just put his bags into the flatbed when Sarah shows up with a gangly teenager in tow. They stow away several boxes full of arcane objects next to his bags and pull a tarp over everything, secure it to the tailgate.

"Let's get some lunch," Sarah says. "I could stand to eat someone else's cooking."

They end up at Lou's with two meatball sandwiches and a double order of fries. It's noisy and cheerful in the little restaurant; the delicious fragrance of hot grease and fresh-baked dough hangs in the air.

"I can't imagine being stuck here full time," Greg says. He snitches a wad of Sarah's french fries and slides them through the ketchup on his plate.

"How many towns did you live in as a kid?" Sarah sips her iced tea. He can tell she isn't in analyst mode, so he answers her with more candor than usual.

"Too many to count. Most of them were military bases." He munches the fries. "You probably never left the confines of the farm until you were old enough to hitch a ride."

"Mostly we lived in Tulsa, though we moved around a lot when I was small. Then Grandma Bailey gave the farm to Dad when I was six." She smiles a little. "Big old drafty house. But it was good when we first moved there. I loved the barn. We boarded horses to make money. I learned how to groom and use a saddle and tack from one of the boarders. Up till then I'd been riding bareback—not the way you're thinking of," she says dryly when he raises his eyebrows at her in a leer. "I was just a kid. So you really did live in Cairo?"

He’s just begun to tell her about the days he spent at the Museum when a shadow falls across the table. It is the woman from the estate sale, her strong features wedged into a scowl. Greg stops in mid-sentence.

"Rosie," Sarah says in the awkward silence. "This is Greg House. Greg, this is Rosie Lombardi."

"I should kick your ass," the woman says—to Sarah, not Greg. Sarah grins, her sea-green eyes bright with mischief.

"It's your name," she says, all innocence. The woman gives Greg a brief glance. In the light from the window it’s possible to see her hair isn’t black, as he first thought. It’s a brown so dark it looks black. _Sable_ , he thinks.

"Figures you're with her," she says. "I answer to Roz, not 'Rosie'. As you well know," she says to Sarah.

"You two have met?" Sarah steals a fry and nibbles it. "Do tell."

Roz looks disgusted. "He tried to cop a feel."

"Uh, _no_ ," Greg says. "I'd be terrified of getting my hand amputated by a hipbone." He tilts his head. "You probably have a tough time rolling over in bed without ripping up the sheets."

Roz looks him over. "Cripple." It is both summing-up and dismissal. She turns to Sarah. "I can come out to do an estimate next week sometime."

"Don't tell me _she's_ the electrician," Greg says.

"That would be fine," Sarah says. She ignores the hostile atmosphere.

"I don't want her working in the house!" he protests.

"Okay, see you Friday." Roz spares him a final contemptuous glance before she walks away. Her narrow back is very straight.

"You were rude," Sarah says, but her eyes glint with humor. "Give her a chance. Roz isn't a bitch, she's just drawn that way."

"She's got man-hater DNA," Greg says. "No way am I going anywhere near her."

Sarah picks up another fry and contemplates it for a moment before she takes a bite. "Okay," she says. "Let's finish up and head for home. I've got seeds to start."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sarah gave the Martin a final tune-up. Before her a low fire hissed and crackled; the flames sent soft ripples of light across the quiet living room. She picked a chord or two, sorted through her store of songs. Greg had already gone to bed, but it was something of a tradition now for her to play a while before she headed upstairs. He never said anything one way or the other about it, but she suspected the music helped him fall asleep. Since she'd started an evening session on a regular basis he'd seemed a bit more rested and less likely to take long naps later on in the day.

He'd certainly done anything but sleep this afternoon, however. She'd been surprised by his willingness to talk about the dream he'd mentioned earlier. Of course there was an ulterior motive, she'd known that from the start; he hoped to come across as cooperative and earn a few good marks for doing so. She smiled a little. Things obviously hadn't gone quite as planned though, because as he related his experience he had truly opened up a little. It was a real breakthrough, the first one in many weeks.

_(The frat house is almost silent as he climbs down the staircase. The living room holds a few diehards who share a roach, but everyone else has either passed out or disappeared. He grabs his jacket from the back of the kitchen door, slips through the dark and goes out on the porch, intent on a smoke in peace and quiet._

_For a long while he sits in the darkness, while his thoughts move in a random, almost aimless pattern. He knows that Lisa Cuddy is an opportunity; he’s been offered something important—but for the life of him he cannot figure out what it is, or how to not fuck things up the way he usually does. The night's events fill him with equal parts exhilaration and outright dread. Even more alarming, he feels a sense of peace within, a rightness he's never known before. He cannot explain or analyze it; no amount of logic will give him the reason why this has happened. Even so he holds the feeling carefully, and cherishes the warmth it lends._

_At last he finishes a second smoke and stands up, to give the yard a cursory glance. What he sees stops him in his tracks. A flat, treeless plain has taken the place of the frat house's semi-urban setting. Stars glitter overhead, a sprinkle of bright dust across midnight velvet; a gibbous moon hangs low in the sky, fat and yellow as a Halloween jack-o-lantern. This is certainly not Ann Arbor or even Michigan, yet somehow it makes complete sense that he's here. Fields and open country stretch for miles on either side of a narrow two-lane highway. Day has just begun, clear and cool. He stretches a little and does a slow turn to get his bearings.)_

Sarah strummed softly. There had been just a hint of hesitancy in Greg's voice at that point in the narrative. It could have been put there on purpose, but she didn't think so. The vibe she'd gotten off him was one of confusion, with a touch of fear hidden away beneath it all.

 _(Across the road and pulled onto the shoulder is a truck—a '55 Jimmy flatbed pickup. He walks to it, taking his time. It's a beauty, utilitarian but well cared for. He puts his hand on the hood; the engine is still warm._ _A quick glance in the driver's side window reveals keys in the ignition._

_In no time at all he rides down the highway. The truck runs smooth as silk; her lights illuminate the path ahead. It unwinds like a grey ribbon, straight and true in the faint light. Above him the stars fade as the deep blue of night is replaced by azure and gold. Over the drone of the engine the radio plays softly. Fresh air billows in the open window, fragrant with the clean sweet scent of the last harvest of hay. He rubs his ruined thigh, a gesture become habitual over the years—but this time there is no pain. His heart swells with joy, as mysterious and bright as the new day.)_

She was fascinated by the deeply intuitive subconscious Greg had tucked away in the eaves of that powerhouse brain. Often she felt intimidated by the enormity of his genius, the manner in which he could look at an object or a person and extract entire worlds of information from them without hesitation.

Sarah had realized very early on in Greg's treatment that in some ways, his brain worked much like an online search engine. If you handed him a penny, his mind pulled up a multitude of facts: the history of coins in general and pennies in particular, the mint where the penny was created, the chemistry and process of the oxidation on the surface, the alloy of metals in the coin, the current market worth of those metals, and even events from the year the penny was minted, juxtaposed with speculation about your motives—all viewed at once and juggled with effortless ease to find the most relevant information. He believed reason alone synthesized those disparate elements into a theory or deduction, but without an intuition capable of comprehension of the whole picture, the details wouldn't come together.

_("Good road," someone says. He glances to his right. An old woman sits next to him. Her features are so dark they seem formed from the material of the retreating night._

" _Where are we headed?" he asks—a foolish question, since he's driving._

" _Storm's comin'," the old woman says. "You're in tornado country."_

" _But the air's calm," he says._

" _Weather's funny that way. It'll change quick as a wink." She chuckles, a rich deep sound that doesn't seem as if it could come out of someone so small. He squints through the dusty windshield. In an open field ahead on the right he sees chaff kick up, a blurry smudge above the golden stubble._

" _Damn," he says, fascinated. He slows to watch the dust devil. It grows, churning as the funnel widens, but it does not darken. Instead it turns white, a column into the lightening sky. Fear replaces curiosity. He jams on the brakes, grips the wheel in preparation to turn and get the hell out of there.)_

Behind the relentless logic lay a profound desire to create and enjoy beauty, a fine sense of and appreciation for the mysteries and minutiae of life, and a desire to love and be loved so powerful it took her breath away. But it was all hidden deep in some protected place within, allowed undiluted freedom only in his music or occasional secret acts of kindness or generosity, as that part of his nature both bewildered and frightened him.

 _I need to talk with Blythe House._ The thought came out of nowhere. Sarah frowned a bit and paused, her fingers on the strings. It was not usual for her to see a patient's immediate family; often they were estranged or embittered by years of lies, addictions and other difficult behaviors. But there was more to it than that, if she was honest about it; she had issues with family, and parents in particular. The thought of Blythe set her teeth on edge.

_("Don't do no good to be scared." The ancient voice holds certainty. "Pay attention and show some respect, you'll be all right. Try to run, you'll be hit for sure."_

_Despite every instinct to back up, he stays put. The funnel jumps the drainage ditch, crosses the road and passes in front of them not ten feet away. It whirls like a sawblade in a silence so intense he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. After it passes he turns to his companion and finds he is alone. He stares at the empty seat. A few moments later he puts the truck in park, opens the door and steps into the road. The funnel is in the rope-out stage now, its inner core visible. He watches it dissipate. When it has gone he returns to the truck. He puts it in drive, intent on a drive down the road. But he is pulled away now; the scene fades as he tries desperately to hang onto something, anything . . . "No!" he shouts, and the word sticks in his throat, sharp as a razor blade. "No . . . NO!")_

Sarah sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. It was quite clear that whatever Greg's conscious mind chose to believe, his intuitive core needed a guide and mentor. That role carried certain responsibilities, the most important of which was to recognize her own difficulties with family and set them aside. She had to remain objective to do whatever was necessary to help her patient.

Blythe was apparently the last first-hand eyewitness to Greg's formative years. Even if her memories were selective, they could still be useful. _But you need to be honest about the other reason why you're contemplating this action,_ Sarah thought. _You want to know how a mother could let her child—especially a gifted child like Greg--be abused. It touches on your own experiences. That means you have to think this through, make sure you're doing this for Greg and not you. Objectivity is paramount, or you could cause more damage._ "Dammit," she said aloud.

_(He doesn't want to wake, but it's too late. The dream stands on the other side of consciousness now; he watches it fade and knows a terrible ache, a longing to be back in that new morning, at peace and whole with a wonderful journey ahead to be savored. Tears fall down his cheeks and he feels shame at his weakness. Pain waits for him, he knows it; endless and inexorable as death, it's something he should be used to by now. But a moment of freedom within a stupid trick of the mind has destroyed his ability to endure the unendurable._

_Now, far away from that moment, alone and afraid, he doesn't care how pathetic it reveals him to be; he reaches out blindly. When Sarah offers her hand he seizes it and holds on tight. Her gaze is steady and bright, taking in all of him without judgment or pity, filled with quiet understanding. Queen of Hearts: the title comes out of nowhere, but he knows it's from his dream._

" _Would you like to work on this with me?" she asks. He doesn't hesitate. He nods yes before his courage deserts him. Her hand tightens gently on his for a moment and he is grateful for the physical presence of her there, a reminder that for now at least, he has someone willing to help him._

" _All right," she says. "Let's talk about it." The faint accent in her soft voice brings to mind the smell of fresh-cut hay and cool morning air, a pledge of renewal, of beginning again.)_

As she struggled with her motives, a song lyric slid into Sarah's mind. The rightness of the words made her smile. Slowly she stretched, watched the embers of the fire as they glowed with the last remnants of heat and light. After a time she fingered the opening chord, played it softly as she began to sing.

_I sailed an ocean unsettled ocean_

_through restful waters and deep commotion_

_often frightened unenlightened_

_sail on sail on sailor_

She'd have to talk with Greg about this, and he'd probably raise all kinds of hell over his mother added to his therapeutic process. She could work on that though, if it turned out to be the right thing to do.

Whatever Blythe might be able or willing to contribute, if she consented it could mean more forward progress for her patient. Sarah felt her heart tighten at the thought. If she was completely truthful with herself, she knew she wanted him to find the joy he'd known for such a short time in his dream. He deserved the chance to find peace. She could not be truly objective about that aspect of their process now; she'd grown to feel a strong affection for Greg despite his attempts to push her away. She understood why he did it, and knew he could do it again; it was his nature to be deeply resistant. Her job was to work with his resistance and use it to help him, if she could.

This felt right. She'd finally found a path she could walk and have Greg follow her, to trust and become more open. Of course there would be unseen potholes and roadblocks along the way, but they were all part of the journey.

 

Greg sits on the edge of the bed and stares down at the prescription bottle in his hand. The weight of it feels comforting and safe, but he knows that's bogus. There's nothing safe about the action he contemplates, and the comfort offered is false. A part of him wants both anyway.

With his thumbnail he eases the lid up and off, then takes out the cotton ball. Small white shapes gleam against translucent orange plastic. It would be the simplest thing in the world to shake out two or three pills, put them in his mouth, dry-swallow them and wait for the pain to fade . . . except he isn't in physical distress. His leg aches, but the pregabalin Gene has him on is fairly effective; it dulls the constant sharp keening of damaged nerves, aside from the inevitable breakthrough pain if he stands too long or walks too much. He's even got meds for that, if he needs them.

No, this is purely psychological. Now he can no longer plausibly deny that some of what he feels is all in his head, as the cliché goes. He opened a Pandora's box today, though he hadn't intended to. He'd told Sarah his dream, and with that act it became real again. He cannot bear the memory of the hope and joy he felt because it doesn't matter, he can't sustain any of it; those feelings are the remnant of a fool's fantasy. And yet he cannot push them away, because he wants to have those emotions again, he wants to keep them, though he knows they will have butterfly lives, they'll fade and die in his hands even as he tries to hold them.

So here he sits, impotent and fearful by turns, torn by two conflicting desires: to feel something beyond emptiness, and the desperate need to make everything go away. The Vicodin will do that for him; he'll be numb for a few hours, long enough to help him sleep without dreams.

But he _wants_ to dream, damn it. He longs for a place where he can love a woman and not fuck things up the way he always does, where he can know peace and not feel like a hypocritical fraud for it. He wants to uncap that well deep within, that place he's always kept locked down tight, and let it break open for once.

It is reckless to seek this. Experience has proven time and again that emotions screw with his ability to reason and deduce; even worse, his feelings are always so intense, so powerful they wipe everything else out of existence. He isn't sure he can keep them in check—and that is what truly terrifies him. If life is bad now, it would be a thousand times worse if he ended up like the idiots around him, at the mercy of every emotion.

 _Real men don't cry or laugh at the drop of a hat_ , his father whispers in his memory. _You're a sissy, Gregory, a weak sister, a goddamn queer. You're a disgrace to the family. I'm embarrassed to be your father. Grow a pair and stop whining._

There are tears on his lashes. This is the second time he's cried today; that's twice as much as he's wept in the last ten years. It is utter weakness, he knows it; it's not going to end well if he allows sentimental drivel to push him into this freakish display, but he lets the salt-water leak out of his eyes anyway.

After a while he replaces the cotton and lid and tucks the bottle back inside the socks in his duffel. From the living room he hears the sound of a guitar. His analyst plays so he can fall sleep, as she has done every night for the last week or so. He remembers his mother at the piano in the evenings, usually when his father was away. Often she'd played for hours, and now he wonders if it was her method to push aside her own pain. He never once heard her complain about anything, even when Dad was critical of every tiny flaw, but he knows she must have felt humiliated, vulnerable. And trapped. He's never thought of that before. What must it have been like to be given no choice except to stand between two combatants? To love both of them, unable to give complete loyalty to one without the loss of the other, but also with the knowledge that to stand with the stronger fighter would protect the weaker, even as it alienated the one she tried to shield . . . trapped indeed.

 _Sarah will want to talk to Mom now._ The thought slides into his mind as he lies there. He cringes away from the inevitable confrontation a visit would cause. He doesn't want her here, because she'll bring the ugliness of his past into what has become the first real sanctuary he's ever known. He's not sure he will survive the process. He also doesn't want to hurt his mother more than he already has. If she visits, that would be inevitable.

As he battles his ghosts, he hears Sarah sing. Her clear, soft alto voice brings the words to life. He listens to the verse. After a while he smiles a little. He understands what the song means. Sleep slowly steals him away, his mind filled with the image of sails as they billow and fill under a stormy sky. 

_'Sail On Sailor,' the Beach Boys_


	5. Chapter 5

_January 17th_

"I've been asked to go to Haiti."

Sarah placed the last plate in the dishwasher, closed the door, turned it on and faced Gene. He sat at the dinner table and watched her. Slowly she crossed the kitchen and sat down next to him. _He just got home,_ she thought, but said only "When would you leave?"

"The twenty-third." He watched her closely. "What are you thinking?"

She reached out to take his hand. "You'll miss Imbolc," she said, and had to wait until her voice was steady once more. "They need you."

"You need me too," he said. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "We haven't seen much of each other in the last couple of months."

"True on both counts," she said softly. "How long?"

"We're working with Doctors Without Borders, and they want all teams rotated every sixty days." Gene sighed. "At least it's not unpaid leave. I have twelve weeks of vacation and six of personal time stacked up."

Sarah kept her eyes on their hands. "What about supplies? Can you bring what you need?"

"They've got stuff coming in, but it's safe to say anything we can take will put us that much farther ahead. Apparently it's still hard as hell to get into Port au Prince or the interior of the country. The roads are a mess and the red tape is even worse."

Sarah nodded. She let go of his hand and rose to retrieve her purse from the coat rack by the mudroom door. As Gene watched she wrote a check, then handed it to him. He read the total, and his eyes widened a bit.

"This is half your severance pay."

Sarah offered him a smile. "Use it however you see fit."

He put the check on the table. "If we decide to do this, finances will be tight for a while. We'll be down to essentials."

"It's the only way I can help," she said. "We'll be all right, if we're careful. It's nothing we haven't gone through before." She fell silent for a few moments. "Let's sell the house in town."

"That's a big step," Gene said finally.

"We've been thinking about it for ages anyway." Sarah sat back a bit. "Unless it would make things more difficult for you. It's a pain getting in and out of here in the winter."

"No worse than it would be if we were living in Nebraska," Gene said, and stopped as Greg came to stand by the table.

"You're both _idiots_ ," he said, and glared at them. Sarah wondered how much he’d heard of their conversation. He looked annoyed, and that intrigued her.

"Why?" She kept her tone mild.

"It's obvious as hell but I'll spell it out for you anyway, since you seem to need some guidance," Greg said. "Going into Haiti at this point means exposure to infectious disease of every description, and that's not the worst of it. The whole country will be in chaos for months. Not to mention the fact your husband's specialty is pain management. He'll be useless. Besides, he's supposed to be monitoring my progress."

"I dealt with this kind of thing in Somalia," Gene said. "My CPR certification is up to date and I know a little about basic first aid, being an MD and all. I'll bring a case of hand sanitizer and plenty of N95s if that makes you feel better. As for keeping an eye on how you're doing, there are these new-fangled things called phones. You can take them anywhere and get in touch with people instantly. It's amazing."

Greg took a chair opposite them and sat down slowly. He watched Gene as if he were a poisonous snake about to strike. "You're a jarhead."

"Once upon a time, yeah," Gene said.

Greg kept a wary eye on Gene as he spoke to Sarah. "I can’t believe you're buying this plan he's selling, because it's complete garbage."

"Why?" Sarah asked again.

"You sound like a four year old." Greg folded his arms and leaned back. "You think if your husband puts himself in harm's way and you both land at the brink of insolvency, you'll make a difference somehow. That's really cute and all, but it's still majorly _stupid_."

"It bothers you that I was a Marine," Gene said. Greg said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. "If it helps, enlisting was a mistake. I'm not military material."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine," Greg said. It sounded as if he quoted someone. "Why two tours then?"

"Didn't say I wasn't stubborn," Gene said. "Fresh out of college, obnoxiously idealistic . . ."

"Yeah, you've clearly changed." Greg gave Sarah a quick look. "And you're enabling this behavior."

"I'm supporting his decision to go, yes," Sarah said.

"But you don't like it." Greg sounded triumphant.

"Of course I'm worried about the danger." She felt Gene's touch on her shoulder and brought her hand up to cover his. "If I asked him not to go, he wouldn't."

"But you're not going to ask." Greg shook his head and started to rise. Sarah glanced at Gene and gave a slight nod. Gene hesitated, then spoke.

"We could use a third opinion on some options we're discussing," he said. "Stay and talk with us."

Greg stared at them both, a fierce look that raked over them both. "Don't patronize me," he said, his voice rough.

"We have serious decisions to make," Sarah said. "You live here too and what we decide affects you, so you have a say in what happens."

Greg resumed his seat. He looked from Gene to her. Hostility was tempered with uncertainty now in that diamond-bright gaze. "Whatever," he muttered.

"Okay." Gene let his hand drift down Sarah's arm to grasp her cold fingers. "Here's what we're looking at . . ."

It had grown late by the time they all fell silent, tired and talked out.

"So we have a plan," Gene said. He slid his hand across Sarah's shoulders, rubbed her gently. She leaned into his touch and let him ease the ache in her neck.

"You mean we have a fallback option for when the shit hits the fan," Greg said, and finished his beer. Sarah noted his use of the term 'we' with secret satisfaction.

"Otherwise known as a plan," Gene said, his tone dry.

"Only if all the pieces fall in place."Greg turned his empty bottle in an idle circle. "The 'if' in that sentence is spelled in flaming red letters six feet tall, in case you hadn't noticed."

"There's no need to borrow trouble," Sarah said. "We can work on fine points tomorrow."

"And on that note I'll say goodnight," Gene said. He stood and stretched, bent down to kiss Sarah, and exited the kitchen. Silence fell. She was about to follow her husband when Greg said,

"I guess you think that little exercise in inclusion will work miracles." He tilted his head. "Very clever, asking me to help out."

"Glad we agree," Sarah said, and smiled when Greg snorted. "Is Gene's having been a Marine going to cause problems?"

All the amusement left Greg's features. "Nope."

Sarah studied him for a moment. "Okay," she said.

"Why do you do that?" He sat up. "You think if you walk away, I'll be compelled to follow and spill my guts to get your attention. It won't work."

"You always have my attention," Sarah said.

"Oh, nicely played." Greg smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "Said it before--once a Marine, always a Marine."

"Gene is different." She couldn't help but defend her husband, though she understood Greg would never believe her.

"Yeah, sure." One corner of Greg's mouth lifted in a smirk, but his expression was impassive. "Oorah."

"Gene grew up on a farm in a big family," Sarah said. "He was raised by a father who served in World War Two. Several of his brothers went into the military, so he followed them. He knew by the end of boot camp it was a mistake, but he said it himself—he's stubborn. He also didn't want to disappoint his parents." She rubbed the dull ache in her arm.

"So he was inspired to help people with their pain during his enlistment." Greg rolled his eyes. "That's just so selflessly idealistic it gives me cramps. Gee, how ironic."

"He learned from his mistake," Sarah said quietly. "It hasn't been easy for him. His father was deeply disappointed when Gene left the service. They had several bitter fights about it. Half the family won't speak to him now because his dad's decided he's a failure." She folded her arm across her middle. "And he married me."

"Don’t understand what that has to do with anything." Greg's voice sharpened.

"His parents had someone picked out, a nice girl. Gene defied them and chose me." She set aside the memories of their wedding, the empty church and no reception. "He understands what it's like to struggle with the divide between expectations and reality."

"You being the reality," Greg said. "His family decided you were a distant second best."

Sarah laughed. "Oh, they did a lot more than that. At one point they staged an intervention. They were ready to kidnap Gene and take him back to Nebraska to remove him from my evil influence."

Greg snorted. "No shit."

"His dad threw down an ultimatum—me or them." She sighed softly. "Gene sees his brothers occasionally, but we don't get invited to family reunions or holidays." She got to her feet. "He says it's worth it. I try hard to make sure it is, because I know for sure _he's_ worth it."

"My blood sugar's climbing as we speak," Greg said. "I'm sure Lifetime will buy the rights to the story and solve all your problems."

Sarah smiled at the thought. "Now that would be an adventure," she said. Her smile faded. "Don't judge Gene on the strength of one bad choice," she said quietly. "Look at the other things he's done, and consider the whole man." She folded the seed list and tucked it into the catalog. "We're not here to be perfect, Greg. We're supposed to make mistakes."

"That's a great line to fall back on when you fuck things up. The problem is, no one else believes it," Greg said. "And it doesn't do jack when you're standing before the court of reality, pleading your case." He tilted his head, watching her. "You think his marrying you was a mistake."

"I think he gave up too much for me," she said. "I do my best to make it a worthwhile trade-off. Since I love him, it's not hard. But there are times when all the love in the world doesn't make up for what he's lost." Sarah put the catalogs in a neat stack. "You're going to make mistakes, Greg. It's what you do after you make them that counts." She offered him a brief smile. "Goodnight," she said, and left him in apparent contemplation of the tabletop. 


	6. Chapter 6

_January 18th_

Gene was halfway through Sarah's seed list, his own comments and suggestions added to her selections, when someone knocked at the front door. He got up to answer, his thoughts preoccupied with the merits of Amish Paste versus San Marzano tomatoes, and was a bit surprised to find Tony Hutch on his doorstep.

"Morning," he said. "What's up?"

"Gene," Tony said, and nodded at him. "Morning. Got a delivery here for a G. House."

Fifteen minutes later the item sat in the middle of the living room. It was a small writing desk made of oak, quite obviously an antique. Gene stared at it, puzzled. It didn't seem to be House's taste . . . He shrugged and took the paperwork Rick handed him, signed for the delivery, and invited Tony into the kitchen for some hot coffee and cinnamon rolls.

"Looks like we'll be moving up here permanently," Gene said over the impromptu breakfast. "We're selling the other house."

"Good idea," Tony said. He broke a roll in half and munched, licked his fingers. "Any time Sarah wants a job making these for other people, let me know. She's always welcome at our house." He glanced at Gene. "Your friend looking for work?"

Gene hid a smile. _Ahah,_ he thought. _Business combined with a fishing expedition. Gotta love small towns._ "He's on sabbatical," he said. "Work's about the last thing on his mind right now."

"Lucky bastard," Tony said. He looked a little envious. "What's he do?"

"At the moment, nothing." House spoke from the entrance to the living room. He gave Gene a glance, then took a clean mug from the rack and went to the coffeemaker. It was obvious he'd just gotten up, his sweats and tee shirt wrinkled.

"Nice desk," Tony said. He watched House but didn’t make it obvious. "One of the better pieces in the sale. Pretty sure it's authentic. There's a small repair to the back of the drawer, otherwise it all appears to be original."

House stirred some sugar into his coffee. "You’re a picker."

Tony nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You in the market for something?"

"Desk," House said. "Plenty of knee room. Solid wood, clean lines, veneer's okay but solid wood, no particle board."

"You're on," Tony said. "Wanna come with? I’m out most weekends."

"Love to, but I'll be needed here." House sipped his coffee. "The man of the house is headed for Haiti. Somebody has to keep tabs on things."

"Good to know," Tony said. He gave House a speculative glance. "If you need help with anything I’m just across the village." He shook his head at Gene and finished a last bite of roll. “You’re going into that mess?”

"It's a chance to be of use where it's needed most," Gene said, and steered the conversation into more general channels. House said nothing, only chose a roll and poured more coffee for himself.

In due course the desk was moved to a spot outside the door of the new office. "I'm pretty sure Sarah wants to put down a carpet," Gene said.

"We have some oriental rugs at the warehouse," Tony said. "They're in decent condition."

"I'll tell her." Gene saw them out, exchanged a few more tidbits of village gossip along the way, and returned to Sarah's list. He sat slowly, looked down at the paper but didn’t see it.

"Sabbatical," House said. He stood by the table. His gaze was hard and bright.

"Technically true," Gene said.

"It also avoids all those messy explanations about why you've got a wack job living in your home."

"I don't consider you to be a wack job," Gene said quietly. "You're not pissed off about what I said though, are you?" He set Sarah's paperwork aside. "It's the whole military thing. You won't trust me to take care of your pain management now, just because I spent four years in the Marines."

"My dad was a fine example of the type," House said. "I tend to use him as a measure because he made quite an impression, in more ways than one."

"I don't know about your dad, but if he was anything like my old man then he was a total bastard," Gene said. "It doesn't necessarily follow that I'm one just because I went through boot camp, however."

"You know, I keep hearing this weird noise," House said. "Like someone shoveling big piles of bullshit."

"Actually manure sounds more like a bell," Gene said. " _Dung_."

Some of the anger left House's glare. "Nice."

"Monty Python wrote some great lines." Gene dipped his head in acknowledgement. He traced a circle on the tabletop with his thumb. "Learned a lot in those four years, the main lesson being I am pretty thoroughly civilian, and happy to be so." He fell silent a moment. "The only good thing to come out of two tours was the decision to go to medical school."

"You saw all the pain in the world and decided to brighten your little corner?" House rolled his eyes. "Somehow the words 'obnoxiously idealistic' come to mind."

"I said it first," Gene said. He stretched and finished off his coffee. "You bought the desk for Sarah."

House made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing." He turned to go and paused. "What rank?"

"Aw, man," Gene groaned. "Don't."

"What. Rank?"

" _Shit_." Gene put a hand over his eyes. "If I don't tell you you'll find out somehow, so fine." He hesitated, reluctant to say it. "Gunnery sergeant."

"Hah! I _knew_ it!" House faced him. "Gunney."

"No way! You're not calling me that!"

"Up my meds and I'll keep my trap shut, otherwise . . ." House gave him an evil smile. "Oorah all day long."

"No deal," Gene said, appalled and determined not to show it. "Do your worst."

"Oh, you really don't want to say that," House said.

"Fine by me then, wack job," Gene said. House made a sound that could have been a laugh.

"Now we understand each other," he said, and limped away.

 

Sarah took off her apron, pulled her hair free of its holder and bundled into the thick sweater she usually wore around the house. Chores were done for the day; she could relax and check out some tv.

She headed into the living room to find Greg settled on the couch, absorbed in a scene where two impossibly gorgeous and barely clad young women kissed each other with enthusiastic abandon. On a silent sigh Sarah turned back to the dining room and opened her laptop, still set up at one end of the table. _Might as well check my email._ She tucked a curl behind her ear and eased into the hard chair, rubbed her arm. Her scars ached; a storm was on the way.

Five messages in, she jumped when someone spoke behind her. "You could have asked me to change the channel," Greg said. "But you didn't."

"You were busy," she said as she turned to face him.

"I was observing, not participating." His gaze narrowed. "You feel obligated."

Sarah gave him a look of inquiry. "I don't understand."

"The damn desk!" he growled. "If I'd known this was going to happen I wouldn't have gotten it."

"I'm just done with chores and was looking for something to do," Sarah said. "You had the tv first. Anyway, since when have you objected to someone feeling beholden to you? I thought that was all part of your master plan to divide and conquer."

"Blah blah," he made a yak-yak motion with his hand. "Don't try to distract me with minor details. The mighty wind of truth is here to blow down your straw house, little pig."

Sarah paused as she was about to refute his statement. "You know," she said slowly, "you're right."

"Of course I am," Greg said, but he looked a bit surprised. "I’ll be interested in what you’re gonna do about it, besides add the phrase 'obvious to everyone but me' to your vocabulary."

She closed her laptop and stood. "I don't owe you, so I can claim some viewing time? Great. There's a _Little House on the Prairie_ marathon on TV Land," she said, and laughed at the look of pure horror her choice elicited.

It was a tease, of course. She grabbed a ginger beer from the fridge, settled on the couch and changed the channel to TCM. Greg folded his lean frame into a comfortable chair next to her, a bag of cheese curls perched atop his thighs.

"It's in black and white," he said as the titles came up. "BO-ring."

" _Out of the Past_ is a classic," Sarah said. "Awesome movie."

"I never figured you for a noir freak," Greg said.

"Are you kidding? There's every neurosis known to man, plus action, snappy dialogue, and risqué moments galore. What's not to like?"

"It doesn't end well," Greg pointed out. "Total downer."

"That depends on how you interpret the story," Sarah said.

"Getting killed isn't a downer." Greg snorted. "Remind me never to go sky-diving with you."

"Jeff Bailey walked away from his old life and tried to make a better one for himself."

"Didn't work," Greg said. "He ended up right back where he started."

"But did he?" Sarah took the throw from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. "I think the act of moving away from his past changed him in ways he never understood fully. Intent counts, you know."

"Bullshit. That's New Age psychobabble. Results are what count," Greg said.

"Intent shapes action, the most obvious truth ever stated," Sarah said. "Simply going through the motions with no plan behind them is a waste of time and energy."

"You've just described working conditions for a majority of the human population," Greg said. Sarah chuckled.

"Yes, but that doesn't make what you said any more correct. We're not talking about what you do for a living, we're talking about personal actions."

"Same thing," Greg said. Sarah gave him a shrewd look.

"Watch the movie," she said, and offered him a smile. Greg rolled his eyes but didn't answer.

"I wanted to ask you something," Sarah said after a time.

"Here it comes," Greg said in a long-suffering tone.

"Are you okay with the plan we worked out last night?"

He stared at her as if she had two heads. "I don't know what possible difference my opinion makes."

"We weren't humoring you, you know," she said. "We really do need your help."

"It's all good," he said. Clearly he wanted to end the discussion. Sarah seized the opportunity his inattention afforded and swiped the cheese curls. "Hey!"

"Nice try, but I'm not putting my hand in your lap," she said, and munched a handful. "Mmm . . . cheesy poofs."

House snatched the bag away from her. "You never let me have any fun. If I'm gonna be the man of the house while Gunney's away, I should get conjugal rights."

"Not in this lifetime," Sarah said, and licked the cheese powder from her fingers. "That's what girlfriends are for."

"Nice work if you can get it," House pointed out. He wouldn't look at her. "Hookers are easier. Fifty bucks and a rubber _et voila_ , instant date. No muss, no fuss."

"BO-ring," Sarah said. "Nothing beats dinner and a movie when you know you're headed home afterwards to mess up the sheets and share breakfast." She settled back and took a sip of ginger beer. "Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you're good with what we talked about—"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's peachy," he said as the phone rang. Sarah got up to answer it. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar name.

"Do you know a Lucas Douglas?" she asked. After a moment House rose to his feet, his expression inscrutable. He held out his hand. Sarah gave him the phone. He moved past her into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

"Douglas." Greg shuts the door and perches on his unmade bed. He keeps his voice cool and a little impatient, but inside his head, alarms blare all over the place. Either Wilson gave out Sarah's home phone number, or Douglas dug it up himself and now knows exactly where Greg resides. The second option is the more likely one, Wilson wouldn’t have a reason to give it to Douglas directly. Still, if he sent something to Cuddy, Douglas could have recovered information by access to her inbox.

 _I’ll just bet he’s got access to her inbox._ Greg pushes the thought aside. However the number was discovered, this does not bode well. The kid wouldn't call if there wasn't some good reason, and that's what worries him—the reason. His situation is prime blackmail material for an enterprising young private investigator with few scruples and an empty bank account.

"Hey House! How are things going for you up there in the great white north?" The younger man sounds odd. He's nervous and talkative by nature, but now there's a strange sort of undertone that puts Greg on high alert.

"I'm having the time of my life shoveling driveways," he says, and keeps his own voice casual, neutral. There’s no reason to let the jerk know he’s upset and maybe a little scared too; as John House told him on several occasions, you don’t hand your enemy the ammunition he needs to shoot you dead.

"Ha ha ha ha, that's pretty good!" Douglas actually giggles. "I bet all the snowmen in your yard have tits."

 _Does he have the house under surveillance?_ Greg thinks. Aloud he says "Then they wouldn't be snow _men_."

"Good point, good point. So, you coming back anytime soon? Princeton's pretty quiet without you."

"I'm on sabbatical," Greg says. "If this is about that last payment on your retainer—"

"Yeah, but see, that's the thing," Douglas interrupts him. "You're not really on sabbatical, are you? Not unless that's what they're calling voluntary commitment nowadays. Of course you're not in Mayfield any longer, but you're still staying with your shrink. That's an interesting situation, don’t you think? How'd that happen? I bet her husband's loving every minute of having you there, especially after you got her fired. Any fights yet? I’d say the two of you are an even match, even with that crippled leg of yours."

The first thing that comes into Greg's head is _Wilson._ But that makes no sense—why would Wilson spill the beans to someone he's never even met? That familiar knot deep inside is back, stronger than ever. "Field experiment," he says.

"Complete with relapses, no doubt," Douglas says. "You’re probably just about out of Vicodin, but there’s plenty of places to pick up more even out in the boondocks. So what is all this, a long-con prank on your analyst? Can't be for a patient. You don't have any, since you're unemployed too."

"It's a new cable reality show. I'm calling it _A Thousand Paper Cuts._ " He grips the phone and waits. The _coup de grace_ is about to be administered.

"Ha ha, great title! I'll have to tell Lisa, she always did appreciate your sense of humor. Well, sometimes. Okay, not that often, but there's no accounting for taste." There is a gleeful, malicious satisfaction in the statement.

"So she's drawn you into her lair," Greg says after a moment. He struggles to keep his tone light, casual. _Lisa,_ he thinks, and fights hard to focus his concentration.

"No, actually she came to me," Douglas says. "We've been together since the beginning of November."

Greg closes his eyes. "And you're still intact? Impressive."

"She's tough but she isn't a man-killer, even though you’ve spread that around for years," Douglas says. "And definitely not a one night stand." There is a noise in the background—a toddler's cry. "Oops, have to go. Wilson says hi, by the way."

Humiliation and fury burn through Greg like a wildfire. _He knew. All this time, he knew._ "I'll bet Uncle Enabler's a model babysitter. Too bad he's a pedophile."

Douglas laughs. "Good one, but I checked his rap sheet and he's clean, at least for molestation. That arrest in Louisiana though, what the hell was that about? You guys get a little too wild in New Orleans? So those rumors about you two being on the down low are true after all?" When Greg says nothing he keeps going. "Anyway, it's great that he doesn't have a love life since you killed his girlfriend. Now he's usually available on weekends. That's why he hasn't been up to see you lately. We've been making Saturday night dates a regular thing and he feels the same way we do, taking care of the baby comes before anything or anyone else."

"You two crazy kids," Greg says. Bitterness rises up in his throat like bile. "Give that adorable little future crack whore a penicillin dose from me. Here's hoping Cuddy's getting good marks in her Castrating Psycho-Warbitch From Hell master course. Better not use praying mantids in the garden next year though, or she’ll get ideas. Of course, you’d do just fine without your head anyway." He hangs up and dumps the phone on the bed, then reaches across to the nightstand, takes his cell from its charger and dials Wilson's number. It goes to voicemail after four rings. He leaves a short, simple message.

"You knew. You fucking _bastard_."

He sits there for several minutes, teeth gritted as he battles rage, bewilderment and pain so deep it feels like his heart is about to split in half. His first impulse is to liberate a vehicle and head to Princeton. He's not exactly sure why he wants to do that; he certainly doesn't need to see Cuddy and Douglas shacked up together, and to go anywhere near Wilson right now would result in assault charges, if not attempted murder. Maybe he just wants to burn down the entire fucking town. He’ll start with Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and then move on to Cuddy’s place. A stopover at Wilson’s would be a nice touch too, then he could use a flamethrower on that damn shrine—something he’s wanted to do since he was first forced to sleep in it.

But cold reason takes over, of course. Actually it’s something of a relief to set aside his hurt pride and fury to consider the phone call and likely reasons for Douglas to make this pre-emptive strike. It’s fairly clear the younger man has staked his claim to Cuddy, and decided to secure it with plenty of blackmail material. To be truthful it’s total overkill and not really necessary. While Greg’s relationship with Cuddy has been something more than boss and employee, there’s no real shape to it beyond that category. They’re not friends exactly, and a one-night stand hardly qualifies them as lovers. Their lives are headed in opposite directions and have been for years now.

Greg reviews the facts: Cuddy wants a family, a stable home life, a man she can control—someone who will provide a suitable father figure for her rug rat and any future spawn who might show up, and also agree to attend official functions as arm candy and a reliable source of respectability cachet. There’s no way he can fulfill any of that, nor does he wish to. What he wants is to do his job, to be free of pain and for people to leave him the hell alone. A home, family and friends—none of that will ever be his, and he’ll never be anyone’s idea of a husband and father. He doesn’t mind that, not everyone’s got the urge to deal with curtain-climbers on a daily basis for eighteen-plus years and then spend a fortune on post-secondary schools, in the hope of a reward some years down the road. He’s happy to leave that to other people.

And yet the fact that such a two-faced little weasel has dibs on Cuddy really rankles, to say the very least. Cuddy truly does have the worst taste in men, and this proves it beyond all doubt. But that doesn’t mean she should be stuck with lemons just because she can’t tell the difference between citrus and a good apple. Douglas doesn’t deserve her, he’s just as lousy as Greg at domesticity—his only skill is in his ability to conceal his true nature. Eventually it will reveal itself however, and Cuddy will get hurt. As much as she’s done to piss him off, Greg doesn’t want that to happen; she doesn’t deserve it. So he has to do a little research and find some dirt on Douglas. It’ll be tricky. No doubt that snot-nosed punk has traps set up to warn him if anyone starts to poke around in his personal information. That will just make the things a bit more interesting, that’s all. Once Greg’s got the goods, he’ll make sure the bits and pieces go to the right person for dissemination into the grapevine at PPTH. Of course that’s Wilson, which is a nice bit of reciprocal justice. Wilson dealt it, so he’ll get to smell it for a good long time, Greg will make sure of that.

After a time Greg retrieves the duffel bag and rummages through its contents to find the socks with the bottle hidden in them. He takes the Vicodin out, pops the lid, removes the cotton and shakes out a couple of tabs. He wants very badly to take four or five to get the full effect, but he's been detoxed long enough to make a dose that big too strong, and also too noticeable. And he has to ration; this is the end of his stash unless he can find some way to get more. Small towns have plenty of sources for drugs, he knows that very well, but access to those sources will be difficult. Gossip will inevitably make the rounds as well, and screw him over. It's better to be cautious. Two tabs will be enough to help him calm down and numb out a little, and no one will be the wiser.

Before he allows himself time to think, he dry-swallows the pills. The familiar bitter-sweet taste spreads over his tongue and he savors it, horrible as it is, because it means relief is on the way. After a few moments he puts the cotton back in the bottle, closes it up and stuffs it in its hiding place. He picks up the cordless phone and returns to the living room. Normally he wouldn't care if the battery runs down overnight, but he doesn't want to give Sarah a reason to come into his room. She hasn't broken her promise yet, but he fears discovery of his stash above all else, and fear is an excellent motivator. Self-loathing fills him for a moment; then it is gone.

"Everything okay?" Sarah glances up at him as he passes by her.

"Fine." He puts the phone on the base. "I'm gonna turn in, it's been a long day."

"Are you all right?" Sarah's quiet voice stops him, but only for a moment.

"Just tired." It's not quite a lie; he feels a heavy weariness settling into him like lead.

"You sure you don't want to talk? You seem upset—"

"I'm fine, dammit!" He hadn't meant to snap at her. "It was someone calling about some maintenance on the apartment. Nothing important."

"Okay." She watches him closely, he knows it but he can't look at her. "Sleep well."

He limps off to his room, feels the first tendrils of euphoria steal through his mind, disgusted and deeply ashamed that he welcomes them with such anticipation. 


	8. Chapter 8

"You knew. You fucking _bastard._ "

James paced across the bedroom and listened to House's voicemail again, wincing at the pain under the raw fury in those two words. _Shit! Shit shit shit!_ What the hell was Cuddy up to, to allow Lucas to call House and let the damn cat out of the bag this way? What part of 'unstable' did she not understand? Did she _want_ a madman on her doorstep? _Oh god . . . what if he's driving down here right now?_ James shuddered. There was no point in an attempt to call House back; he'd either not answer, or he’d conduct a precise surgical excision of balls, to start with anyway. The very thought made James blanch. That left Sarah. He speed-dialed her number and wiped the sweat from his palms as it rang. It was Gene who answered, however.

"Hey Jim. What's up?" His voice was soft; that meant Sarah was probably already in bed and asleep. James sighed.

"I need to speak with Sarah," he said, unable to hide his reluctance. "I'm sorry to call so late, but this is important."

"Okay, she's right here." He waited through the rustle of bedclothes, a brief exchange, then Sarah's voice on the line, a little sleepy but clear and alert.

"Hey Jim, what's going on? Are you okay?"

Just for a moment he remembered nights when they'd talked into the small hours together, snuggled under the covers or on the couch with the flicker of the tv screen as their light source. The sweetness of those moments still caught him now and then when he heard her like this, the faint twang of her accent a bit stronger than usual because she was a little tired. His guilt increased at her concern over his well-being, but he pushed his reluctance aside and told her the situation. He cringed at her silence as he stumbled and hesitated and finally got it all out.

"Let me get this straight," she said when it was clear he was done. "Doctor Cuddy's found someone else. She decides initially to say nothing about it to the man who's been obsessed with her for a coon's age, a man she knows is still in recovery from a breakdown, hard at work to stay clean after years of addiction. And someone who still has an attachment to her. His best friend, who also knows all of this, doesn't tell him either."

"Sarah, come on!" James said in exasperation.

No, it's okay. I understand that to a point. You both had a tough choice with no good options either way. But then out of the blue, Cuddy decides to blindside this same man and apparently cause as much damage as possible because she's got some sudden jones to be honest and open. But instead of doing it herself, she uses a third party." She paused. "What the _hell_ is going on down there?"

"When—when you put it like that it sounds—it sounds bad--"

"It sounds bad because it _is_ bad!" she snapped. "Y'all all couldn't have done a better job of messing things up if you tried!"

James sighed. "I wanted to tell House, but Cuddy asked me not to. She was afraid he would try to break up her relationship with Lucas. He's capable of it, you know. I don't know why she decided to say something now. It doesn't make sense to me either, unless it's because there's physical distance between them and she feels like it's safe now."

"She's dealt with him for years and yet suddenly she can't stand up to him unless he's too far away to do any immediate damage? But she still has someone else deliver the dear john letter? That's an unbelievably impractical mindset for someone who runs a hospital, especially a woman at the head of a prestigious East Coast institution. She didn’t get there by sending someone out to do her dirty work. And it's damn naïve to think distance would discourage Greg in any way." Sarah gave an angry laugh. "Well, why should she worry? She's got you to run interference for her."

"Hey, that's not fair!" James felt his own temper rise. "I didn't have to call, you know."

"Come on, this is just to cover your ass, don't pretend to anything nobler than that! I know you, Jim. You're a good negotiator and an excellent peacemaker, but you're also afraid of confrontations when you're emotionally invested. You'll do anything to avoid them."

"Don't you dare analyze me! I told you before not to do it!" he snapped. His voice rose in volume as his anger and guilt flared. "I've known House a lot longer than you have, I'm well aware what he's capable of—you aren't! Cuddy wants a family and a home, and House would have no compunction about the destruction of all that if it suited his purposes! Dammit Sare, he killed Amber! What more proof do you need?"

There was a long silence. James swallowed on a dry throat, utterly appalled at what he'd just blurted out. _I don't believe that,_ he thought. _I really don't believe that. So why did I say it?_ "I didn't mean that," he said aloud.

"Yeah, you did." Sarah sounded distant, her voice dark with sadness. "No wonder you let Cuddy trash my patient." She sighed. "You need to talk to your analyst about this, Jim."

"Wow. That should make for an interesting session." House's voice on the line was a shock James felt all the way to his toes. "I can hear it now. 'Hey doc, did I ever tell you about the time my junkie BFF killed my woman? I had them drill a hole in his brain to let all the bad gris-gris out, it really got my rocks off.'"

"House . . ." He faltered, at a complete loss for words. _Why doesn’t Sarah stop him?_

"By the way, Wilson's right." House radiated false bonhomie. "I'm good with a joyride down to Princeton to stomp on Cuddy's cosy little love nest. I could even do it from here with a few well-placed phone calls. Of course I'd lose my license permanently and never work again, but it might be worth it."

"There's a _child_ involved," James said, desperate to put a halt to this slide into madness. "You destroy her family, she'll be sent into the foster care system. Would you really visit that on her?"

"You honestly think it's better she grows up with the Backstabber-Weasels," House said, all concern now. " _Seriously?_ Wow. You really believe Mommy's bestest widdle girl should have the chance to get her clit pierced, do crystal meth and screw the entire football team just to piss off her parents when she hits puberty. Some model babysitter you are. Then again, if I got to record it all and sell the rights to a cable channel . . . Let me make some calls, get back to you. I’ve got a camcorder in the apartment somewhere. We'll need it. Actually, one of those pinhole videocams would be cool as hell."

"House . . . don't do this. Please." Even as he spoke James knew it was pointless.

"By the way, you're all laboring under a huge misapprehension. Cuddy didn't arrange to have her boy-toy call me, he did that on his own. But I’m sure his super-sized piece of ass will approve. He's probably got the house wiretapped to record everything for his sweetie's amusement as we speak." House snorted. "He's listening in to my listening in . . . how ironic is _that_."

"Okay, that's enough." Sarah's voice was coolly professional now, all the warmth drained away. "Greg, I'm coming downstairs to talk with you about this. Jim . . ." She paused. "From now on you do not call my patient directly. While he's under my care, you talk to me first. You also have to clear any visits through me. That goes for Cuddy and her partner, and anyone else from Princeton-Plainsboro. If you want to tell them, fine. If not I'll be happy to do it myself. I’ll be sure to send email and a paper letter too, just in case there are technical problems on your end for some strange reason."

"What the _fuck_!" James got to his feet, outraged. "Why am I being punished for what those two did?!"

"This is not punishment. I'm making sure that any further attempts to harm my patient or sabotage his progress stop with me," Sarah said. "Jim, if you allow them to manipulate you like this, I have no choice."

" _Wil_ -son's in _trou_ -ble," House sang.

"Fuck you," James said under his breath. “This is all your fault anyway—“

"That's _enough_ ," Sarah said sharply. "Greg, please hang up. Jim, I'll need Doctor Cuddy's home phone number."

"Make Wilson deliver the bad news," House said. "It's only fair."

" _Greg_." Sarah waited. There was an ostentatiously loud click. "Now hang up for real."

" _Jeez_ , Mom." And he was gone. James let out a breath he hadn't realized he’d held in.

"Doctor Cuddy's number, please," Sarah said. James gave it to her as his mind raced. What would happen now? "Thanks. Okay, here's how things will be set up as of right now. Your number and anything to do with Cuddy will be blocked on the main phone—"

"Oh come on, Sare!" He couldn't believe she’d really go through with this, but apparently she felt it was necessary.

"—but if Greg wants to call you or anyone else, he can. I will suggest to Greg that he blocks your number as well as Cuddy's on his cell; it's his decision, but don't be surprised if he does it. If you need to get in touch with me, use my cell. You can give Cuddy my number but if her boyfriend decides to get cute again, I'm more than happy to sue both him and Cuddy for invasion of privacy, harassment and anything else that applies."

"I'm surprised you're not ready to take out personally," James said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "You're able to beat me up with no trouble."

"You can stop the attempt to angle for sympathy, because you’ll get none from me. You brought this on yourself," Sarah said. James winced at the icy chill in her voice.

"Yeah, by trying to do the right thing for too many people, as usual," he said. "More fool me."

"James Evan Wilson, when are you gonna learn you can't make everyone happy?" She sighed. "I care about you very much even when I’m mad at you, you know that. But you also know my first duty is to my patient. He's just started to open up. I will not risk his chance to heal. If he loses this one, I don't think he'll be able to try again."

Later, as he lay in bed and attempted to relax, James thought of House and Cuddy, of the pain in House's words under the sarcasm, the uncertainty in Cuddy's eyes when she spoke of Lucas. _What a disaster_ , he thought, too discouraged to even talk with Amber about it. He knew what she'd tell him anyway— _Sarah's right, you're a fool to think everyone's going to end up living happily ever after. And let Cuddy clean up her own messes._

"Easy for you to say," he said aloud. "You're dead," and felt the now-familiar pain in his heart at the words. Slowly he rolled on his side and closed his eyes, and knew a long night was ahead.


	9. Chapter 9

_January 19th_

When the phone rang, Sarah gave the finished bread dough a final gentle slap, covered it with a tea towel and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn't hurry to answer; Greg was in town with Gene, to look over some odds and ends for the office and pick out a carpet from the stash at the Hutch storefront. Besides, she had a bad feeling about this call; it's too soon after last night's debacle.

Sure enough, the caller ID read 'Cuddy/PPTH'. Sarah drew in a deep breath, let it out and picked up the phone. "Good morning," she said, and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Good morning. Am I speaking with Doctor Goldman?" The tone was brisk, professional and efficient.

"Yes, this is she," Sarah said. _Here we go._

"Doctor Goldman, this is Doctor Lisa Cuddy. You might remember me from Doctor House's stay in my hospital last October."

"Of course, Doctor Cuddy." _Well, aren't we nicely brought up little girls. Points to you for discreetly alluding to your superior status as a gainfully employed executive administrator._ "I hope you're well."

"I was fine until this morning." A hint of irritation showed in the smooth voice. "Doctor Wilson just left my office. I presume you know why he was here."

"Why don't you tell me what he told you and we'll take it from there, if you don't mind?" Sarah asked, still the essence of politeness.

Cuddy sighed. "Wilson told me some story about Lucas—my—my partner—calling House last night. He said I should talk to you about it."

 _I should have known Jim would leave the heavy lifting to me. Weenie._ "Lucas did call, I answered the phone myself. Greg spoke with him in private. He didn't share particulars, but when Doctor Wilson called a bit later I found out that apparently Lucas decided to warn Greg off."

"'Warn him off'? What exactly does that mean?" Cuddy sounded puzzled.

"You tell me," Sarah said with some acerbity.

There was an uncomfortable pause. "Doctor Goldman, I'm not sure what this is all about but I _am_ a busy woman, so if we could cut to the chase it would make my morning a little simpler."

"All right. Here's what I see going on, and you'll forgive me ahead of time for being rather blunt," Sarah said. "You've decided to find a new romance. That's certainly your privilege. You also decided not to tell Greg about it, for reasons clear only to you. Also your privilege. Everything's hunky-dory until your boyfriend suddenly feels threatened by your ex-relationship with Doctor House for some reason and makes a call, wherein he demonstrates that he not only has a wealth of dirt on my patient, he's willing to use it to keep Greg away from you."

Another silence. "That's quite a story, Doctor Goldman." Cuddy's voice was ice-cold. "And this conjecture is based on . . .?"

"The evidence provided last night," Sarah said. "I spoke with Greg after Lucas's call. I didn't ask him for specifics, but he did confirm that some remarks were made that could be interpreted as threats."

" _Threats_?" Cuddy's anger was clear now. "I've known Greg House a lot longer than you have. He's more than willing to cause trouble to keep himself entertained. Are you certain that isn't the case here?"

Sarah kept her tone neutral, even as her fingers curled into a fist. "No, that is _not_ the case here. I suggest you talk with your partner about this. In the meantime, I'm blocking calls to this line from you or anyone else at Princeton-Plainsboro. If you want to speak with me, please use my cell number. I'm presuming Doctor Wilson gave it to you, if not I'll be happy to provide it. Greg is free to contact whomever he likes."

"Are you suggesting a call from me could cause problems?" Cuddy sounded incredulous.

"I'm not suggesting anything, Doctor. I'm simply making sure my patient isn't t-boned by someone with an agenda." She paused. "Or a clueless ex-friend." _Uh-oh, bad move, Corbett. That was a snotty little jab and you'll pay for making it._

"You have no right to say that to me! I hired House when no one else would, I gave him a department to run, fellows, an office next to his best friend, for god's sake!" Cuddy's professional smoothness had dissolved. Even worse, there was genuine pain mingled with the anger. "I've put up with lawsuits, cost overruns, endless complaints from staff and patients . . . The man drove away a benefactor with one hundred million dollars and ended up going to trial on drug possession charges. He even aided and abetted the perpetrator during a hostage situation here, destroyed my office and half the Testing and Research floor in the process and I _still_ kept him on! I've risked my own career for him not once but several times. I am NOT a 'clueless ex-friend', as you so charmingly put it!"

"I apologize for that remark, it was uncalled for. It's admirable you did all those things," Sarah said. Cuddy gave an indignant snort.

"'Admirable'!"

"I'm not mocking you. You were loyal to a fault, and that truly is admirable given the circumstances. But things have changed. You've decided to move on. The problem is, Greg doesn't understand that because you haven't told him." Sarah fought to keep her tone neutral. "If you know him as well as you claim to, you also know he tends to obsess over personal relationships. You will not be able to simply make a phone call or walk away and expect him to leave you alone." Even as she said it, understanding brought the puzzle pieces together. "That's what you've been thinking about doing though, isn't it? Did you talk about this with Lucas?"

"That is none of your business!" Cuddy snapped.

"Yeah, you did," Sarah said. She propped her head with her free hand, eyes closed. _How can someone so smart be so damn dumb?_ "Don't you see? Your partner knows what you won't acknowledge—that it won't be so simple to get rid of Greg. Lucas made a pre-emptive strike to strengthen the effect of the call _you_ were planning to make sometime this week."

Silence fell. "How did you . . ." Cuddy began. She sounded much less strident. More of the pain showed now, and Sarah felt a moment of sympathy for her.

"You were going to ask Greg how he was doing, was he making progress, did he think he'd be coming back to work any time soon? You had to know because you couldn't keep the department on standby forever, et cetera. After he jerked you around for a while and conned you into sparring with him he'd tell you no, he's not coming back, not anytime in the forseeable future. Then you'd get mad and bitch him out for destroying his department and his job and driving you nuts for years, tell him someone else would take over, end with ‘see you around', and hang up hoping that would kill the relationship." Sarah rubbed her forehead. "But you didn’t really want to make that call because it would hurt both of you too much. Despite everything that's happened over the years, you really do care deeply for Greg. So you talked about it with Lucas, probably a casual conversation where you could drop the information without feeling too bad about doing so. And the whole time, in the back of your mind you knew Lucas would do your dirty work for you."

"I . . . I never—"

"And _that_ is why all your numbers will be blocked and you will have to go through me to talk with Greg, unless he calls you himself, which I will discourage." A surge of anger tightened her voice. "Regardless of his past actions, Greg House is my patient and I have a responsibility to offer him the best chance for healing possible. If that means shielding him temporarily from you and anyone else in his past who could stand a few years of therapy themselves, then that's what I'll do."

"If you think he's really trying to get himself clean you're in for a rude awakening," Cuddy said, her tone gone from icy to sub-zero. "Once an addict, always an addict. Not to mention he's a master manipulator and doesn't have an ounce of compassion when he's got a game going, and I am here to tell you, he's playing you like a Strad."

"I know he's hurt you deeply." _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm_. "I also know from personal experience what it's like to go through this process many times with someone you care for. After a while you pull away and stop believing in them because it's just too damn hard to stay open and supportive. You're right, there's ample justification for your anger. Greg House does know how to play games better than anyone else. But that still doesn't mean you get to trash my patient. You must know recovering addicts relapse numerous times during the process of healing."

"I can't believe you're continuing to make excuses for him after he got you fired!" Cuddy sounded contemptuous now, as if she believed Sarah had lost her mind. "Are you going to wait until he tries to break up your marriage before you figure out he's not interested in being clean and sober?"

Sarah rose from her chair. She trembled with anger, her scarred arm folded across her middle. "You think you know him, and maybe you have removed a mask or two over the years, but the rest is lip service. From what I've seen you've been perfectly willing to use him for your own purposes, enabled him left right and center, and then blamed him when he did things you don't like or that make you look bad. You might have gone through hell for him and I know you care about him, but you also wanted him to obsess over you in return so you could flirt and feel desired without having to do the real work involved in a real relationship. I understand he's as guilty of dabbling as you are, I'm not laying all the blame at your doorstep, but you carry some of it whether you admit to it or not. Unfortunately Greg had the bad taste to go off the rails and spoil everything. Now you've got someone else, and that's great. I don't give a fuzzy pink rodent's backside how the two of you set up your relationship, but understand this: I will stand for Greg House and defend him for as long as he needs me to do so. He is in treatment and attempting to find some healing. That means he's my patient. It also means he is no longer your or anyone else's target. If your partner tries to come after him in any way, there will be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence. Then Cuddy said "Crystal."

"Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other. Thank you and have a wonderful day, Doctor Cuddy." Sarah clicked off the phone and hurled it at the nearest chair. " _OOOOOHHH!_ " She tore off her apron, balled it up and threw it after the phone. "Who the FUCK do you think you are, miss High and Mighty!" She kicked the couch and was satisfied to feel it jump under the blow, even as her big toe cracked and pain shot up her calf. "Tellin' me I don't know when I'm bein' played, if that isn't the damn pot callin' the kettle black! I'll take you out and nail your worthless raggedy old spotted hide to the side of the barn and be DONE with you, damn miserable fuckin' COW!"

" _Whoa._ "

Sarah turned to find Greg and Gene in the front hall. Gene looked wary; Greg looked both shocked and amused. Heat flooded her face as mortification surged through her and heightened her fury. _So much for objectivity. You blew it big time, you idiot!_ "I'm going for a WALK!" she snarled, and turned on her heel. She hobbled from the kitchen into the mudroom, stuffed her feet into her boots and hissed as her injured toe flared with pain, snatched her jacket and mittens from their hook and bundled them on, wrenched the door open and was brought up short by enormous flakes as they fluttered around her. " _Dammit!_ " She glanced at Bob's barn down the lane. If she couldn't walk she could at least talk to the horse. _He_  wouldn't try to pass off his shit as anything else but plain old manure, that was for sure. She marched back into the kitchen and crammed her pockets with apples from the bowl on the table, then headed out for an hour's respite. The slam of the door behind her felt _good_.

 

Gene winces as the back door slams. When it is clear Sarah is out of the house he advances to the couch, picks up the phone and sets it carefully on the cradle.

"That was fucking _amazing_ ," Greg says, and means it. He's seen Sarah mad, but never at full eruption. Her hair actually _glowed_. He's heard of the phenomenon before, but dismissed it as poetic license. Now he knows it isn't.

"It's a good idea to stay out of her way for a while when she's got her Irish up and mixing her metaphors," Gene says. He gathers her apron and takes it into the kitchen. Greg goes to the phone and checks the caller ID. When Cuddy's name appears he stares at it, disconcerted. After a few moments the morning's events become clear.  _She defended me._ Sarah's anger wasn't personal—it was on his behalf. And a magnificent anger it was too, absolute outrage and fury combined with genuine concern. He holds the phone in his hands, looks down at it. After a time he sets the receiver in the cradle and goes to the fireplace. He shakes down the logs with the poker, places fresh wood on the renewed flames and stands close, glad of the burgeoning warmth.


	10. Chapter 10

_January 21st_

It is a blustery, snowy evening, with substantial amounts of accumulation expected overnight. Greg is delighted to be inside a warm house seated near the office woodstove, with the prospect of a hot dinner in the not too distant future. He’s about to open a box of books when there’s a knock at the front door. He hesitates, his head bowed. _Douglas._ The thought makes anxiety flood his body. His stomach clenches as he grips the box’s flaps, and waits to see who it is. He catches a glimpse of Gene as he goes to answer the door, journal in hand, his finger between the pages to mark the place where he stopped. "Hey Roz," he says after a moment, “Come on in,” and Greg relaxes, but only a little. It's a somewhat lesser evil, at least. In as much silence as he can manage, he gets up and limps to the doorway. He moves behind the wall and looks out into the living room.

"I've got a few minutes so I thought I'd stop by and take a look at the room you want wired." Roz stamps her feet on the mat and removes her gloves as she comes in. She wears a forest green parka that’s seen better days, shabby jeans and worn boots, with a faded multi-colored hat perched on her head. She turns her head and catches a glimpse of Greg. Her expression darkens but she says nothing, only follows Gene as he leads her to the office. Greg is tempted to stick his tongue out at her. Instead he opens the door and moves aside, ready to exit when they come in. He’s prevented from this action by Gene, who says with vile cheerfulness,

“I don’t think you’ve met our friend Roz Lombardi. Roz, this is Greg House.”

“We’ve met,” she says, and turns away in dismissal. Greg glares at her.

“More’s the pity,” he says, but she ignores him and does a slow turn in the middle of the room. Gene spares Greg a glance, his expression unreadable.

After a few moments Roz says "It'll be easier to put outlets in the interior walls, of course. Your service can carry them, but you should probably upgrade to two hundred amp. Sarah says you're thinking about a chest freezer." She has a dark, cool voice, a little husky, but when she talks about technical issues she sounds different. It’s an odd sort of change, but it suits her somehow. She pulls a tape measure from her coat pocket. It’s a laser model, not the old-fashioned kind. "You could easily go off-grid if you put in a combination of windmill and solar panels. I have a line on the new thin-film technology, it would be perfect for you here. Bob's generated enough juice at his place to sell some of it back to the co-op since he put in panels."

"That's what we thought too," Gene says. "We can work on it this spring. I'll be home by the end of March at the latest, if everything goes according to plan."

"Yeah, well you know how that usually works." Roz measures a wall. Her movements are relaxed, quick and efficient; she knows what she's doing. "I'll send you the specs. It'll give you something to take your mind off things." She turns the tape measure off and tucks it into her coat pocket, rummages in another pocket and produces a small pad and pencil. She scribbles a few notes. The contrast between ultra-modern and old school should be laughable, but Greg is surprised to find it’s rather charming. "Anything else while I'm here?"

"Yes. You can stay to dinner," Sarah says behind them. Roz's angular face lights up. Greg cannot believe the transformation. She is actually something close to pretty when she smiles. There are dimples in her lean cheeks, her strong features soften and her eyes sparkle, and she looks a lot younger. Her thick dark hair even curls just a little at the ends as she lowers her shoulders out of the defensive hunch they’ve been in since she arrived. _Huh_ , he thinks. _Miracles can happen._

"That depends," Roz says. A teasing note lightens her rather sardonic tone. "Whatcha havin'?"

"Gene's calling the shots this week, so tonight we're doing burgers with three-chile spread and some homemade slaw." Sarah sounds happy. Greg feels a stab of something like shame because she's been worried about him, upset over what happened earlier in the week and anxious because Gene will leave soon; he knows all of that and can do nothing to make her feel better.

"Three-chile spread—that nuclear stuff Gene gets in Texas? I’ve always wanted to try it." Roz shrugs out of her coat. "Tell you what, next time you have me over I'll bring some meatball sandwiches with provolone and an extra jar of Poppi's marinara."

"You don't have to trade," Sarah says as she takes Roz's parka and hat, "but if you're offering I won't pass it up, Poppi’s recipes are too good to miss. Supper's on in fifteen minutes." She moves to the front hall closet to hang up the coat. As she does so, it’s possible to see she still favors her right foot a bit.

"What happened? You're limping." Roz's voice is sharp. Greg hears the concern in it and is intrigued. He hadn't figured her for someone who cared about others to that extent.

"Lost my temper," Sarah says. "Kicked the couch."

"Ha," Roz offers a genuine smile. That elusive prettiness is back; she’s a different woman when she lets herself relax a bit. "Glad I’m not the couch, it probably lost the contest."

The meal is a much more pleasant experience than Greg thought it would be, at least initially. Sarah knows how to put people at ease. The kitchen radio plays the regional NPR station in the background, with the evening’s news and commentary; everything is set out buffet style and consists of a big basket of fresh, hot home fries and bottles of cold beer to accompany the burgers on grilled sourdough rolls. He piles his plate and gives the much-vaunted spread a taste. It is way beyond nuclear; he wonders how the glass jar hasn't melted from contact with it. Well-used to the insane heat of _vindaloo_ beef, he slathers the spread on his burger, takes some fries, and sets to work.

Ten minutes later sweat runs down his spine and his entire upper digestive tract is on fire. He grabs his beer and takes a huge slug, winces as the blast-furnace heat intensifies for a moment, then fades somewhat. It is pure heaven.

"Wow, ten minutes," Sarah says, and gives him a grin. "That's the second-best time."

He downs another swallow of beer. "'Time'?"

"Between the first bite and the first drink," Gene says. He’s flushed and sweat beads his forehead too. "I've got you beat by two minutes."

"Yeah, but you cheat," Roz says. Her face is almost scarlet. "You've eaten this stuff for years."

"So what's your secret?" Sarah’s the only one not affected, because she declined to have even a taste of the spread. Greg gives a loud belch and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

" _Vindaloo_ ," he says. Roz gives him a blank look, but Gene is impressed.

"Holy crow," he says. "Masochist."

"What's that?" Roz wants to know. Greg stares at her.

"You're kidding."

"I wouldn't ask if I already knew," she says, and frowns at him. "What is it?"

"The Indian equivalent of three-chile spread," he says. Roz looks even more confused.

"Indians don't eat hot stuff," she says. "The Mexicans on the landscaping crews do, but—"

"Not Native Americans or whatever the hell they're called now," he interrupts, annoyed at her ignorance. "East Indians—from India. That's outside New York State, in case you didn't know that either."

She glares at him. "I know where India is, you jerk. I’ve even had Indian food before, just not whatever _vindaloo_ is."

"Jerk is Jamaican," he says, and almost smiles as her glare intensifies.

“I know that too,” she shoots back.

"Bet you've never had that either. Have you EVER been outside this blink town?"

And just that fast she closes down. Quite clearly this is a sore spot; good to know. "I went to tech school in Buffalo," she says quietly. There’s a touch of defiance in her words. “That doesn’t mean I’m ignorant.”

"So no doubt you think _haute cuisine_ is hot-wing platters with celery and ranch dressing." He can’t help but taunt her. It's not fair, he knows she can't help her insular experiences, but something in him wants to slap at her.

"Actually I think you're a snob who likes to hurt people before they hurt him," she says. Her eyes flash; they’re deep green, the color of moss. "Too bad it doesn't work."

The scatter-shot attack throws him for a second, but then he's been off his game for months. He opens his mouth to reply and catches a glimpse of Sarah's face. She watches him and Roz too, with a cool speculation that pulls him up short. "Says you," he mutters, and glares at Sarah. She raises her brows, then pops a fry in her mouth, just as she did at the diner days ago. Gene looks impassive, but his dark eyes are full of amusement.

Once dinner’s over, Greg is surprised to see Roz help with cleanup. She clears the table and knows where the containers are kept for leftovers; it’s plain she’s been invited over many times. She and Sarah do the dishes together. Greg sits at the dining room table, half-hidden in shadows, and watches her. She moves with a quick efficiency that is still graceful; her thick hair shifts and glimmers as she reaches up to put plates away, and turns to open the silverware drawer. She’s a bundle of contradictions—awkward and sullen, practical, affectionate by turns. He wonders about her history, what her family is like, then pushes the thought away. Once she’s done with her work here he won’t see much of her, if at all. Pointless to want to know more about her.

After dinner Roz sits down with Sarah to discuss plans for the office. Sarah invites Greg to join them. He stays on the opposite side of the table and watches them as he sips his beer. Under the mellow light of the overhead pull-down lamp Roz's dark hair has a faint coppery sheen. Her skin is pale but not like Sarah’s creamy color; it’s more gold than white, and it suits her. She tucks a thick lock behind her ear, and Greg sees a few small curls hidden by the long strands. If she wore her hair in a shorter style it would be wavy or even loosely curly, not straight. He wonders what she would look like in a bob. She has a long slender neck and swimmer's shoulders, well-set and straight; she’s not skinny as he first thought, just a naturally slender build; she’s got a little bit of muscle after all. Now that he can see her in half-profile, she has a long straight nose and prominent cheekbones, a small mouth compressed into a straight line, but when she smiles her lips show themselves to be full and nicely shaped. She’s probably a great kisser . . .

 _What the hell am I thinking?_ He pushes the image away and realizes Sarah has just asked him a question.

"Is there anything you'd like to add? Anything special you need?"

Greg doesn't even glance at the rough plan Roz has sketched on her notepad. "Nope," he says, gets to his feet and limps away. 


	11. Chapter 11

_January 22nd_

Greg puts the Eames chair behind his new desk and steps back to take a look at the result. It's a good match; the sleek, smooth lines of the chair compliment the simple Art Deco style rolltop he's chosen. His lamp is placed so the light shines on all the right spots, and his turntable and vinyl collection are both within easy reach. His side of the bookshelves is filled with medical journals, reference texts and some of his favorite mementos. Underfoot the thick oriental carpet glows in muted colors, soft scarlets and yellows and oranges, the stylized forms rolling across the broad floorboards in orderly fashion. The franklin stove radiates heat and crackles in a comfortable sort of way; a sizeable stack of firewood and a basket of waxed pine cones wait beside it on the brick hearth, ready to be used. Outside the small window on the back wall, snow falls in lazy swirls. The room has come alive with all these disparate bits and pieces. It's a great office, and it'll be even better when Sarah puts her things in place also. A few days ago, before Douglas's phone call, he would have been more than satisfied with the results. Now he feels an emptiness he knows all too well. None of it matters.

"Looks great!" Sarah stands in the doorway, looks around the room, her face bright with pleasure. "I'll get my stuff in tonight after dinner." She glances at the turntable. "Everything came up from storage okay?"

He sits down in his chair, tips it back a bit, hoists his legs to the top of the desk and crosses them. All he needs is a ball to toss. And patients--not to toss, to diagnose. Same difference most of the time. "Yeah."

"Greg." Sarah watches him now, her expression troubled. "What is it?"

For one insane moment he considers the option to tell her all of it—the deep wounds Douglas inflicted, the numbness in his heart, the Vicodin. He feels like he's slowly bleeding out. If he doesn't say something soon, he'll die.

 _What's the point?_ his rational mind sneers. _She can't do anything. Nothing anyone does will help. You're on your own, you always have been._ "Nothing," he says. "Tired. Leg's a little stiff today." He'd shoveled part of the front step before a spasm forced him to stop.

She comes into the room. "Is it your thigh?"

"My groin," he says as she ends up beside him. "It's . . . it's just so painful. Is there anything you could do—you know, a little massage, maybe a hand job . . . anything?"

"You are such a horndog," she says dryly, but there's a smile in her eyes. "How about I work on your quadriceps, since that's where it hurts?"

"Wet blanket," he mutters, but only because she would expect him to. His heart isn't in it.

"May I touch you?" He nods and looks away, hears her rub her palms together hard and fast. When she covers his scar he jumps. Heat pulses from her hands, soaks into what's left of the muscle. Without conscious choice he sighs, relaxes as the deep ache recedes.

"Better?" The contact is light, comforting. It feels wonderful.

"Mmmm . . ." He knows a dangerous sense of peace and tries to push it away, but it won't budge.

"Gene wants to talk with you about your pain management before he leaves."

His relaxation evaporates. He struggles to pull free but her small hands hold him in place gently. "It's all right," she says. "He wants to set up things through his assistant so if you need changes or a consult you won't have to wait. You'll like Thomas, he's good at his job and he'll be a real help."

 _I'll be the judge of that._ "Okay."

"Greg, what's _wrong_?" Her concern is genuine, and it scrapes at him. "Don't worry about your meds, Gene will make sure you're taken care of."

He yanks his legs down and winces as his ruined thigh sends a loud protest to his brain. "I'm fine."

"Please talk to me." Her soft voice is persuasive, but he won't listen, he can't. He limps out of the room to get his laptop and leaves her there. When he comes back she is gone.

After dinner, while Sarah sets up her side of the office, Gene goes over the plan. "If you need to speak with me directly you can leave a message at this addy or ask my assistant to contact me. I won't always be able to get back to you immediately, but Thomas can make some decisions in my absence." He gives the paper with contact information to Greg. "How's the pain? Still having breakthrough when you're standing or walking? We can increase the pregabalin a little if need be. There are several other options we haven't tried yet as well."

"'m good." He feels like a total shit for lying to this man, who is the first physician to actually help him find some dependable relief and who seems to care that he stays that way. Gene also hasn't treated him like a drug-seeker. The irony of that fact hangs over him.

"Okay." Gene doesn't look up. "I sent a progress report to Will. We're making headway on the surgery approval front. He'll be contacting you in a couple of weeks about getting the nerve block done."

Greg's heart sinks. "Great."

"That jerk really did a number on you, didn't he?" Gene says quietly. "Is she worth fighting for?"

"Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about." He can't do this conversation. "Cuddy made her choice. It wasn't me."

"Okay. Didn't mean to pry." Gene gets to his feet. "Any questions, ask."

After a while Greg goes to the office. Sarah puts books on a shelf. Music fills the room. It's Bessie Smith—one of her favorites, he often hears that distinctive voice when Sarah's in the kitchen or intent on housework. Bessie sings 'nobody knows you/when you down an' out . . .' _Truer words_ , he thinks.

"You’re using a kitchen chair at your desk," he says, for lack of anything better to say.

"I've got an office chair on order, it'll come in next week." Sarah fits a reference book in place. "May I ask if Gene said anything about the surgery?"

"He's already talked to you," he snaps. "Stop pretending you're not discussing me behind my back. It's getting old."

"He hasn't said anything except in general terms," Sarah says. She holds another book in her small hands, watches him with a resignation he cannot bear. "I learned my lesson about betraying a trust, Greg. I won't do that to you or anyone else ever again."

He believes her, but it doesn't matter. Without another word he turns away and goes to his room, where the Vicodin waits and he can try to sleep without dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

_January 23rd_

It was the end of a very long day, one she’d hoped would last even longer. But Gene was on his way to Haiti, and Sarah was alone.

She'd held it together all day long, mainly because she knew her husband needed her to do so. It was a silent request she could honor, about the only thing. So she smiled and joked and stayed at his side; she went to the airport and waited with him until he had to leave her behind at the security checkpoint. She'd stayed to watch his flight depart, stood at the observation windows, and waved like a complete idiot until the plane was gone from sight.

Afterward she'd driven herself home in the cold dark, hoped against hope to make it before the next storm hit, and made it by the skin of her teeth; the last few miles had proven treacherous but she’d slowed the minivan and taken her time, and was rewarded with a quiet ride up the driveway to home. The glow of the lights in the windows had given her a little comfort at least. Now she lay in their bed, chilled despite the thick warm comforter and flannel sheets, Gene's pillow hugged tight to her so she could breathe in his scent. She'd even left the light on, like a little kid afraid of the dark.

Greg was nowhere to be found when she arrived. The living room was empty, and there were no dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. His bedroom door was closed, though she saw a sliver of light from the bottom gap. So he was awake, but not about to come out and get involved. _He's trying to avoid emotional pain, even someone else's,_ she thought. _But there's more going on. I think he's relapsed somehow._ The idea was not a new one. For several days now she'd suspected he was high—not enough to attract attention, but then she'd had more experience than most people in the detection of small signs that were easy to dismiss or overlook. Still, the only evidence she had was her intuition; the man took pain meds on a daily basis, and that complicated matters considerably. If she confronted him and it backfired, if it turned out she’d read those little signs incorrectly, he might lose the tiny but significant gains in trust he'd made since he’d come here.

Yet it wasn't physical symptoms as much as attitude that sent her those warning signals. He had withdrawn in some vital way, and he was in emotional turmoil—not a surprise given recent events with Cuddy and James. If he was using, it was to numb out, push things away to a safe distance. She knew that urge all too well herself. _And I can't get him to relax enough to talk with me about it._ Once or twice she'd nearly succeeded, but the man was true to his nature, and that was stubborn with a capital S. She would have to wait until she was absolutely sure he was on something beyond his prescribed meds, but by then it might be too late to help him.

Sarah sighed, shifted a bit and saw something poke out from beneath her pillow. She felt around with care and brought forth an mp3 player and a set of earbuds. There was a small post-it on the case:

_play me_

It was Gene’s untidy, bold scrawl. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She sat up, removed the note and stuck it on her nightstand, then put the buds in her ears and started the playlist. When the opening chords of 'Approaching Lavender' began she brought cold fingers to her lips as a laugh trembled there. It was a recording Gene had made two summers ago in the back yard of their house in New Jersey. She listened to the rustle of leaves, the sounds of children in a distant yard as they shouted and played, the rush of wind over the mike as Gene sang, and felt the tightness in her throat ease. She curled on her side as the song ended and a poem began. Gene's low, quiet voice recited e.e. cummings 'somewhere I have never travelled'. She closed her eyes, imagined her head on Gene's chest and the words as they rumbled under her cheek, and gladly slipped into happier memories.

_(late February 1998_

" _That cute guy's here again tonight." Laynie nudged Sarah._

" _There's a lot of cute guys here tonight," Sarah said, and sipped her iced tea. She didn't look around the room, though it was plain Laynie hoped she would. "Which one are you drooling over now?"_

" _The one who just took the stage. Ooohh, he's gorgeous! I bet his umpty-times great-grandpa was a pirate." Laynie stood up to get a better view. Sarah tugged her back down into her seat._

" _Are you sure you like girls better?" _

" _I can appreciate a good-looking man," Laynie said with dignity. "I just don't act on it." She nudged Sarah again. "Hey look, he's gonna play!"_

_Sarah peered at the stage. Actually, that was rather a grand word for the battered plywood podium with its single antiquated microphone and folding chair. The young man seated in that chair held a guitar in his hands. Laynie had to be completely hormonal or something, the guy wasn't even cute; he looked tough and mean and a little dangerous with his q-tip haircut, deepset eyes and stern expression. Then, as she stared at him, he turned his head and looked straight at her, a long, assessing stare that took her by surprise and made her glance away, uncomfortable with the intensity behind his gaze._

" _Hey, he's scoping you out!" Laynie informed her and several other tables. Sarah felt heat creep into her cheeks._

" _Will you shush?" she hissed, though she knew it was hopeless; Laynie couldn't be discreet if her life depended on it. She dared a glance at the stage. The young man still looked in her direction, only now he smiled at her. The transformation it created made her gape in astonishment._ He has dimples, _she thought in bewilderment._ A pirate with dimples. _Laynie was right; he was gorgeous. _

" _Hey guys," he said, and a peculiar little shiver went through Sarah at the sound of his voice. It was low and resonant and had a noticeable Midwestern accent, the good kind—not nasal and closed off but open, with a little twang to grace honest, grounded words. "I'm gonna change my playlist just a bit and start off with a favorite of mine. Some of you might have heard of Gordon Lightfoot," he nodded in acknowledgment at scattered applause. "He wrote some fine songs, and this is one of his best."_

_He began to strum a chord. His big hands caressed the instrument with a skill borne of long practice. Sarah wondered what it would be like to have those hands on her and felt her blush intensify. She lifted her gaze to his face once more and sure enough, he still watched her._

" _If you'd like to spend an afternoon approaching Lavender/you'll feel just fine but one thing's sure/you'll never be the same," he sang, and grinned at her. Sarah ducked her head and wondered if she was absolutely scarlet by now, one of the many curses of a fair skin._

" _Oh my god," Laynie moaned next to her, "this is soooo romantic!"_

" _Oh, sweet Lavender, as fragrant as the name you bear/please cast aside the clothes you wear/and give your love to me," the young guy sang. His dark eyes gleamed with humor and something else, something that told Sarah he meant every word. "Oh, sweet Lavender, your smile is like the golden sun/I'd like to see you laugh and run/as naked as the sea . . . "_

_People had started to turn in their seats in an attempt to follow the singer's line of sight. Sarah hunched her shoulders and wished, not for the first time, that she had the gift of invisibility—a vain hope for someone with a mane of curly, carrot-colored hair._

_When the song was finished she clapped a few times out of politeness, got to her feet and collected her coat. "I have a test tomorrow," she told Laynie._

" _Boy, are you red!" Her friend chuckled. "Wish someone would sing songs like that to_ me. _"_

" _Yeah, I--I guess--well, that's great. See you later." Sarah fled the coffeehouse as if every member of her family was in hot pursuit. She was so distraught she didn't even put her coat on until she was halfway across the quad and covered in snowflakes._

_An hour later, a knock sounded at the door. Sarah got up from the couch while she struggled to remember which paragraph she wanted to footnote, and raised her voice to reach into the hallway._

" _Pizza's for apartment C, this is A!"_ _No one answered; the knock sounded again. With a sigh of irritation she got to her feet and unlocked the door._ " _I didn't order anything!" she snapped._

" _That's good, because I'd like to ask you out for supper."_

 _Sarah slowly lifted her eyes to look straight into the lean, dark face of the young man from the coffeehouse. He smiled down at her; he was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders, long legs and a wonderful musky scent, some sandalwood-based cologne and his own smell, clean and male._ Oh, my god, _she thought, and swallowed_. _Up close it was possible to see his eyes weren't brown, but a sort of greeny-hazel with gold flecks. They changed to a deep hazel color as she looked into them. They gave her a curious light-headed feeling._

" _Supper?" she said, and winced inside. She sounded like an idiot._

" _Well, traditionally it's the meal you eat in the evening. We could do a movie beforehand if you'd like."_

" _Why did you sing that song to me?" she asked before she could stop the words. "You don't even know my name."_

_His smile deepened a bit. "How about I tell you mine? Michael Eugene Goldman," he said, and held out his hand. "Call me Gene."_

_After a moment she put her fingers in his. His palm was callused but warm and dry. "Sarah Jane Corbett," she said, and hated the prosaic sound of it. "I'm just Sare."_

" _Sarah Jane." It sounded different when he said it—not plain or boring at all. "Please come to supper with me."_

" _Why?"_

" _Why not?" His clasp changed as he spoke. He held her with a gentleness she hadn't expected. That light-headed sensation was back, and she found it was actually a very pleasant one._

" _All right," she said. "Okay.")_

Sarah smiled and snuggled into Gene's pillow a little deeper. _I convinced him to grow his hair out after that, just so I could run my fingers through it._ He'd moved in after the third date, and now she couldn't remember what it was like not to have him there with her. This longer separation would be a good reminder of what she'd taken for granted for years now.

Tomorrow she would send him a reply, one he'd enjoy and appreciate because of their shared history. She listened to his voice recite the words they both treasured; she closed her eyes, felt tension slip away slowly as sleep claimed her. 


	13. Chapter 13

_January 26th_

Greg emerges from his bedroom with a pile of dirty laundry wrapped up in a sheet. He drags it through the living room, into the kitchen and to the washer, where it is dumped in front of the machine to await a sort and wash by someone else.

There is no coffee ready however, no breakfast kept warm in the oven. Disgruntled, he throws grounds into a filter, jams it into the coffeemaker, starts the machine and searches the cupboards for an easy meal. Ten minutes later he's headed into the living room with a one-quart bowl filled with half a box of Cinnamon Life, chocolate milk, and sugar. He intends to spend the morning in front of the tv. As he is about to take over the couch he hears Sarah's laugh, sweet and musical, drift in from the office. He ignores it and searches for the remote, only to pause when she laughs again and then says something. He cannot make out the words, but he hears the humor in her tone. Intrigued despite himself, he gets up and heads to the office, bowl in hand.

When he peers in the doorway, it is to find Sarah at her desk on her laptop webcam as she talks to a young woman. "I can't believe they really want to follow us around all summer," she says. "Aren't there enough reality shows as it is?"

"Hey, if Reed Timmer can do it, why not us too?" The young woman says with  a big smile. She is the very definition of cornfed beauty—natural blonde, fair skin, big blue eyes, straight white teeth. He catches a glimpse of cleavage when she shifts—nice bouncy rack too. "It's _money_ , Sare! A lot of money! We could commission some probes and upgrade our radar and maybe even buy a new truck."

"It would mean a film crew getting in the way," Sarah said, her tone dry. "Of course I wouldn't expect _you_ to mind."

"Hey, are you saying I'm a camera hog?" The young woman laughs and then squinches her eyes as she peers into her side of the webcam. "There's a good-looking guy who isn't Gene right behind you."

Sarah doesn't even turn her head. "Greg, this is Laynie Jorgesen. She's the other half of our storm-chasing team. Laynie, this is Greg House. He's staying with us for a while."

"Woooo, nice to meet ya Greg!" Laynie gives him a long look from those china-blue eyes. Greg blinks. "Does Gene know about you?"

"Of course not," he says, and slurps up a big spoonful of cereal. "Coffee's on," he says through layers of half-soggy wheat, sugar and chocolate milk. "I know you don't drink it, but I thought I'd induce some guilt first thing."

"Damn, I forgot! Sorry," Sarah says. Now he hears the tiredness in her voice. _Probably up half the night worrying,_ he thinks, and shrugs it aside. She agreed to let her husband traipse off to one of the world's great pustules of misery; she has no one to blame but herself.

"Hey Sare, does this mean Gene is fair game now? Mm—mmm!" Laynie actually smacks her lips. They are full, soft and impossibly pink.

"You are incorrigible," Sarah says with obvious affection. "You know, I could tell Kate about all this man-grabbin' talk and you'd be in big, big trouble."

"Blackmailer," Laynie says, but she's got a laugh in her voice. Greg pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth while milk drips on his tee shirt.

"You're a _lesbo_?"

"I prefer vagitarian," Laynie says primly. Sarah cracks up. Greg drops the spoon into the bowl, unable to prevent a bark of laughter.

"Nice," he says, and leans against the doorjamb. All sorts of wonderful fantasies start to unreel in his mind's eye.

"But I _could_ be convinced to switch-hit if you're up for teaching me," Laynie says, and bats her eyelashes at him.

"Stop it," Sarah says on a laugh. "You can ride your bike some other time. Back to the topic at hand. You should know I probably won't be able to chase this summer. We'll need to find someone to take my place."

"What's going on?" Laynie goes from lascivious to concerned in a microsecond. "You're all right? You haven't had a recurrence?"

"No," Sarah says, "I'm fine. There's a prior commitment that takes precedence. There are no guarantees about when I'd be able to come out, and you know the long-range forecasts are predicting an active season, especially along the dry line. We can't pass up an opportunity to gather more live data for the paper."

"You've never missed a season since we started STR," Laynie says. She is completely serious now, the humor gone from her features. "We've got the best chance ever to join the big leagues, and you can't make it? Come on Sare!"

"'STR'?" Greg says.

"Sooner Tornado Research," Sarah says. "Laynie, I can help from here—you'll shoot me the data and I'll work on it, I can do all kinds of research now that we've got the office set up. That's the best I can offer at the moment. Besides, it's no big deal. We can get Atkins to take my place—"

"I am _not_ chasing with that prick," Laynie says. Her eyes flash and she looks mutinous. "It should be _you_ , Sare. We've both worked so hard for this! It's not fair that you're stuck on the Coast when everything's going to break for us!"

"It's not a big deal," Sarah says again. "You'll be there, that's all that matters. So you think we should take the offer?"

Greg heads into the living room; he’s heard enough. He has the tv on when Sarah comes through a while later. She goes into the kitchen. After a time he hears the washer start up. After a few minutes she joins him as she takes a seat the couch, a mug of tea clasped in her hands.

"’Recurrence,’" he says. Might as well dive right into the interrogation. She sighs.

"Didn't think you'd let that one go," she says. "It was nothing. I had a lump in my left breast. It was a cyst. Apparently my mom's side of the family has a genetic predisposition. Just one of the many things she never bothered to tell me."

"Surgery, no doubt." He keeps his tone mild while he sorts through likely diagnoses.

"Well, I was tempted to leave it in, but they wouldn't put an implant in my other breast to keep things even, so I said what the hell, take it out. I'm still just a thirty-two C." She flashes a grin at him.

"Thirty B, tops." 

"Jeez, party pooper. Let me have my fantasy." She sets the tea aside, tips her head back and closes her eyes. "Anything else you want to ask?"

"Tell me why you're not chasing this summer." He knows why, but he wants to hear her explanation.

"I'm working with you."

"That's complete bullshit. You could leave for a few weeks, it wouldn't matter."

"You are my first priority," she says. "We'll find a sub. It's okay."

"You're putting your life on hold while you shrink my head." That makes him feel anxious for some reason. "Nobody asked you to do that."

"No, they didn't," she says. Greg makes an impatient noise.

"Go chase your damn twisters!"

“That’s what the tourists call them. They’re tornadoes. Funnels. Lowering rotation.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand. “Same thing. I don’t need you here.”

Sarah opens her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asks softly. "Feeling guilty?"

"Why would I?" he snaps.

"You tell me," she says, and in that moment he understands: she knows or at least suspects he's using. He waits for the torrent of accusation to begin, but she only closes her eyes again and brings her feet up on the coffee table. She wears a pair of thick sheepskin slippers with scuffed soles and quilted tops, and it’s plain they’re old favorites.

"Nothing to tell."

"Okay.” She sips her tea.

"Reverse psychology. Wow, no one's _ever_ tried _that_ technique before," he taunts her. "No, wait! I get it! You're doing research for a paper. In that case, hate to tell you this, but . . ." He speaks in a loud whisper. "It won't work on me. Word to the wise and all that." He gives her an exaggerated wink.

"Okay," she says again.

"Jesus, are you paying royalties on words? What do you _want_?" He is frustrated yet again with her refusal to take the bait, and afraid of it too. He's used to people who poke at him, interrogate and lecture him, expect the worst; she does none of those things. It's like trying to fight with a down-filled comforter.

"The truth," she says. "But only when you're ready."

He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by a cell phone ringtone. Sarah lifts her head. Without comment she gets up and answers it, moves into the kitchen. Greg can hear her talk, but her words are few and far between. Her voice is soft enough that he can't determine her emotional state either. He sits there and his gut twists as he waits for her to come back and reveal who has called and what they want.

After a while Sarah returns to the living room. She doesn't look grim, not exactly, but her expression is serious, resigned.

"Who was it?" he asks, though he doesn't really want to know.

"Wilson. Your mother called him," she says. A shock goes through Greg at the words. "She wants to meet with you. Apparently she's concerned about your staying here. Someone told her you were pulled out of Mayfield and brought to our home for brainwashing or something, and now no one has access to you. She's worried."

Her tone is carefully neutral, but he hears the anger beneath it and is comforted in a curious sort of way. "Lucas," he says, a surmise but it's possible he's right. He'll have to do some digging to confirm though. Sarah nods.

"That's my guess too, but at this point it doesn't matter," she says. "I'd hoped we could wait until later, when the warm weather arrives . . ." She sighs softly. "Now we don't have a choice, we have to meet with her. But we can at least choose the time and place."

"She's not coming here." Greg feels a distant sort of surprise.

"That's a hell of a distance for an older woman to travel in the dead of winter. We can find a middle ground, a halfway point." Sarah glances at him. "Would you be all right with that?"

He nods, though it's a lie. There is nothing comfortable about any of this. He thinks of the Vicodin he's got left—about twenty tabs—and a murky panic grabs at him before he can push it away. It's not enough, not nearly enough to get him through what's coming, but he'll have to make it work somehow.

"I'll see what we can set up," Sarah says. "I'm sorry about this, Greg." She is concerned, he can hear it in her voice, but all he can think is _I have to talk with Mom_. He's not exactly sure what will happen, but he does know it won't be anything good.


	14. Chapter 14

_January 29th_

Today's the big day.

They have arrived at the midway point. It's not Princeton; Greg had vetoed the idea before Wilson even had a chance to offer. He couldn't handle the thought of an attempt to talk with his mother in the Amber Shrine or at PPTH, and to have this _tete-a-tete_ in a public place like a restaurant is completely out of the question.

So they'd left home at 3 a.m., drove through several snow squalls before they hit clear dry highway at last. As the sun rose they'd stopped just outside Wilkes-Barre for some breakfast and a tank fill-up at the local Wawa. He'd dry-swallowed two Vicodin right before they left and ended up nauseated; a cup of coffee with creamer and sugar had helped settle his stomach to a degree, but he still felt sick. Sarah had opted for tea of course, but most of it sat in the driver's side cup-holder in her travel mug. It had heartened him to know she was nervous about this whole thing too.

Of course he'd tried to weasel out of this ridiculous plan. He knew Sarah wouldn't drug him senseless, stuff him in the minivan, and head south. When they’d talked about it, he'd laid out the logical reasons why this was a pointless trip, thrown in some heavy-duty sarcasm for good measure, and hoped Sarah would give in. She had listened to him, then said "She's your mother and she wants to see you. She's worried, Greg. If you don't take care of this now, it'll just get worse."

Normally that statement would have received nothing more than incredulous laughter and some choice rejoinders, but for some reason he can't push it away. If he were to think about it, if he were to consider why he's such a complete jerk about this whole trip, it could be because he knows Sarah is right. He has to do this.

As a result, he and Sarah wait in the reception area of a private practice just outside Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. In the past he’s come up from Princeton to Nazareth on his bike to window-shop guitars at the Martin store—a pleasant day trip in summertime, with the Delaware River  to keep him company through sleepy little towns and tourist traps like New Hope--but he was never interested in this old run-down steel-mill town.

"I called in a favor," Sarah had told him the night before. "We can use a conference room at a former colleague's clinic. We'll have it for the entire afternoon."

Now she sits next to him with a copy of Newsweek in hand, calm as you please, while he is tied in knots so tight it feels like he's going to break apart. She wears one of her old office outfits for the occasion--dark teal suit, cream-colored blouse and low-heeled black pumps. Her hair is arranged in a simple style that tames her bright curls into something that resembles order, and her makeup’s done well, not too much, not too little. She looks competent, assured and in charge.

"May I touch you?" Her soft voice reaches him dimly. He glances at her and finds she isn't oblivious to his distress. Unable to speak, he nods once and looks away. Her hand slips over his, takes his frozen fingers in a warm, firm grasp. To his eternal gratitude she doesn't offer him clichés or trite phrases about how it'll all be okay; she just gives him silent reassurance. He senses her concern, even as the outside doors open and his mother and Wilson walk in.

Mom looks the same as always—elegant in a soft white sweater and charcoal-gray slacks under her thick winter coat, her silver hair neatly coiffed; her small gold earrings match the simple wedding band on her right hand. He tries to find some residual sadness for Dad's death in her but it isn't there, or perhaps she's still got the ability to hide her emotions. There had been times in his childhood and youth when he hadn’t been quite sure exactly what she felt, though most of the time she was fairly predictable. Wilson is . . . Wilson, dressed in office casual: white shirt, tie, sweater, pleated slacks, loafers, trench coat already draped over his arm.

"Greg," Mom says, her expression expectant. Slowly he gets to his feet and lets go of Sarah's hand to move forward. When he is close enough he bends down to give her a quick, awkward hug. He hasn't seen her in a while; he always forgets how small she is. She kisses his cheek, returns his hug and pats his shoulder, then steps back.

"Mrs. House, this is my friend and colleague Doctor Sarah Goldman," Wilson is saying. "Doctor Goldman, Mrs. John House."

"Good morning," Sarah says in her calm, clear voice.

"Good morning," Mom replies, and her tone is a tad less than gracious. Greg watches his mother's gaze flicker over Sarah's face and clothing, her sensible shoes and unpainted nails, and sees her frown just a little. _Not what you expected,_  he thinks, and knows Sarah has somehow scored a point for their side.

"Why don't we all sit down?" Wilson says. Sarah nods.

"We're in here," she indicates a door on the right. They follow her into the room. "Would anyone like coffee or tea before we begin?"

"No, thank you," Mom says. "We had a delightful brunch at the Vienna Tea Room."

"Excellent choice. Their scones are delicious." Sarah glances at Wilson, then at Greg. "We'll get started then. If we could please be seated?"

Everyone does as she asks and chooses a place at the conference table. It's a pleasant if unremarkable setting; lamps placed here and there around the area provide mellow indirect light, and the walls are decorated with florals and landscapes done in soft pastels. Greg takes the closest seat, unbuttons his coat, sets his cane aside and sits down. He knows his worst nightmare is about to start and he cannot stop it, like an avalanche you hear far up in the mountains above you as you ski down a slope. His heart beats fast and hard; he swallows on a dry throat and hopes this goes quickly, but the chances are slim indeed.

"Before we begin, I'd like to establish a few parameters," Sarah says. She speaks in the cool, unflappable tone he remembers well from their early days together at Mayfield. "This meeting has been agreed to in the hope of promoting Doctor House's further recovery, and to answer questions about the nature of the process used to help him. To that end, my role is one of facilitator. With your permission I will ask questions that bring out pertinent detail, or guide the conversation back to the topic at hand if it is warranted."

"Of course," Wilson says. He gives Sarah a shrewd look but doesn't say anything more. Mom nods and glances at Greg. After a moment he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

"Whatever," he says, and his mother frowns at him just as she did when he was a teenager, sullen and uncooperative.

"Okay, thanks," Sarah says. "Mrs. House, I understand you have some questions about your son's treatment process. Please feel free to ask me anything. I'll answer as truthfully I can without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality."

Mom looks a little taken aback by this up-front honesty. "Well, I . . ." She rallies and looks straight at Sarah. "All right. What on earth do you think you're doing, keeping Greg at your country home when you're a married woman?"

Greg wants to snap at her that he's not having an affair with his analyst because he's not Wilson, but before he can even form a reply Sarah speaks.

"Doctor House is my patient. He is also under the care of my husband, Doctor Gene Goldman, for ongoing pain management issues." She is the consummate professional, her words precise, well-chosen, and logical. "Gene and I both felt Doctor House needed more therapy than could be given in short weekly sessions. To that end, we invited him to reside with us at our farm in upstate New York while he is in recovery." She pauses. "Doctor House is free to leave at any time. It is his choice to remain, and he is welcome for as long as he cares to stay."

"But you do understand it looks bad?" his mother says. "I don't want my son involved in anything that could jeopardize his career."

He _has_ to interrupt this time. "Mom, my license was suspended. I went to _rehab_. I'm an _addict_. My career is already in the toilet. Staying with my shrink and my pain management tool is not going to make things worse."

His mother makes a gesture of dismissal. "Greg, you can get your license back. I spoke with Doctor Cuddy and she said it would take a little time, but you could do it." She leans forward slightly; her earnestness grinds at him like a polishing wheel. "All you have to do is make up your mind that you're done with the drugs and go back to Princeton. You've got a wonderful career there, and friends who can help you."

"Doctor Wilson," Sarah says quietly, "when Doctor House was working with you at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, did you write prescriptions for him?"

Wilson tenses, his expression wary. "Well, yes."

"Those prescriptions were for hydrocodone—Vicodin, a narcotic. Am I correct?"

"Sarah . . ." Wilson sighs. "Yes."

"You wrote numerous scrips for Vicodin even after Doctor House admitted to you that he was addicted to that substance," she says. Her tone is neutral, but Wilson still bristles, predictably.

"If I hadn't written them he would have stolen the pad from my desk and forged my signature! In fact he did that several times!"

" _Gregory_ . . ." Mom stares at Greg, shocked.

"How many times do I have to tell people that I'm an addict?" Greg says. Anger sparks deep within. "Addicts do stupid things, like forge scrips."

"Doctor Wilson, isn't it also true that the Dean of Medicine was aware of the prescriptions you were writing for Doctor House?" Sarah asks. Wilson favors her with a glare, but beneath his anger there's a palpable apprehension. Greg recognizes it and knows a brief amusement. Wilson hates to be faced with his attempts to eat his cake and have it too, Greg knows because he's used it often in the past to mess with Wilson.

"I--we . . . discussed the issue—from time to time."

"So Doctor Cuddy knew Doctor House was given a controlled substance, a narcotic, to which he was addicted. This narcotic was prescribed by another member of the hospital staff who had full knowledge of Doctor House's addiction. Further, Doctor House was taking it while he was on hospital grounds, during working hours. That meant he was making decisions that would affect the health and well-being of his patients while under the influence."

"They all knew," Greg says. "It wasn't just Wilson and Cuddy. My team, even the damn housekeepers—everyone knew. I didn't hide it." _Another point for our side,_ he thinks.

"And yet _no one_ did anything to put a stop to it?" Sarah sounds incredulous.

"That's not fair," Wilson says with some heat. "I tried to get him some help! It took Tritter nailing his a—him," he amends, mindful of Greg's mother. "As part of a deal he went into rehab, but it was all a big joke. Wasn't it?" he hurls at Greg. "You sat there and popped a pill right in front of me in the visitor's room and you thought it was funny!"

"Well yeah, it _was_ pretty funny," Greg says. Mom gives him The Look. He hasn't seen it in many a year, but it still has the same power over him it did when he was a kid. He shuts up as his gut tightens.

"One of the reasons why I offered Doctor House the chance to stay with Gene and me was to help him step away from the old patterns that played a part in his addiction," Sarah says to his mother. "It became obvious to me that the people around him in his workplace were enabling him, probably out of a mistaken attempt to help him cope. I believe if Doctor House were to return to Princeton and his former job without further treatment, he would inevitably fall back into the same habits that created this problem in the first place."

"Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence," Wilson says.

"I'm not making this personal, Doctor Wilson," Sarah says, calm and cool. "I'm simply stating things as I see them."

"I really don't believe what you're implying is true, Doctor Goldman," Mom says. "Greg knows he did terrible things and let down his family and coworkers as well as his employer. I think he could make up for his wrongdoing by returning home and proving to everyone that he's stronger than they think he is. If you weren't holding him back he'd be there now." She looks at Greg. "Isn't that right?"

"You believe addiction is a choice?" Sarah asks, her tone mild. "That it's wrong?"

"Of course," Mom says. Greg watches her in disbelief. No one else understands the full extent of her hypocrisy; it makes him sick.

 _Tell_ , a little voice deep inside says. _Tell them_.

 _I can't_ , he argues with that small whisper, horrified. _It's a secret. Mom's sitting right there. If I tell, I'll get in even worse trouble than I am now._

 _How? Dad's dead. He can't hurt you any more,_ the voice reminds him.

 _But Mom's sitting_ right there. _If I tell, she'll hate me for the rest of my life. She's all the family I have left._

 _Secrets keep you sick._ That's Sarah's voice inside him now. In his mind's eye he sees her perched on the picnic table in the yard at Mayfield, the sleeve of her cardigan pushed up to reveal the terrible scars on her arm. _I found out who and what I really am,_ he hears her say. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her next to him, at his side. She's still there, despite his best efforts to push her away; she's stood by him, and in this moment he understands that, really gets for the first time how much this has cost her, and how generous she is to agree to pay that cost. He has a chance to follow her example, and discover who and what he really is. If he fails, he'll know for sure that nothing he does will ever matter. If he succeeds . . . He pushes that thought away, takes a deep breath and wills his hands to not shake.

"So, Mom," he is still astonished to hear himself speak aloud, "you're saying you _chose_ to abuse Valium when Dad was away on maneuvers?"


	15. Chapter 15

If the situation wasn't so tense Greg would smile at the reaction his question elicits. Wilson looks surprised. His mother is shocked for about five seconds before alarmed outrage takes over. She doesn't show it, however; she hides it behind a concerned expression. He has no doubt about what she really feels though, at least not this time. Sarah says nothing; still, he can all but hear her shout _YES!!_ inside her mind.

"What do you mean?" Mom asks carefully, as if he's delusional.

"All those afternoons when you told me to do the laundry or the dishes, made me clean the house while you were so stoned you could barely stand up," he says, and feels something within him shift. He doesn't pay attention to it; his focus is on the confrontation. "You're saying you chose to do that--pass out for hours on end and neglect your kid."

Mom's gaze darts to Sarah, then away."I have no idea what you're referring to. I don't remember anything like that happening."

"Come on, Mom!" Anger surges through him. "You were taking enough downers to knock out an elephant." He remembers glimpses of multiple pills in her hand. "I saw you with at least three times the prescribed amount on a routine basis. Amateur," he adds as an afterthought.

" _Greg!_ " His mother glares at him.

"Did you have a prescription for a sedative, Mrs. House?" Sarah asks.

"That is absolutely none of your business!" Mom snaps. Now she looks nervous and just a little frightened.

"It's a legitimate question," Greg says, and realizes with some surprise that he enjoys her discomfiture. "An even better one is why you were taking them in the first place."

"What's the point of this?" Wilson says.

"Did you have a prescription?" Sarah says again. She ignores Wilson.

"I--yes, of course," Mom says, defiant now. "The base GP gave me one. When John was away, I . . . I had trouble sleeping."

"You were nervous without your husband at home?" Sarah's tone is quiet, no accusation. His mother relaxes a little.

"He was gone so often, and I was raising a young boy . . . not the easiest child in the world." She softens the words with a tight smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Greg gave you trouble?"

"Oh, you have no idea!" Mom brushes a strand of silver hair back into place. "He was a handful. Without John there to discipline him I'm afraid Greg got away with quite a lot."

"I never got away with anything. You kept a log for Dad to read when he came back on leave," Greg says. His mother looks genuinely surprised now.

"Well of course I did, dear. You had to learn there were consequences for your actions."

"Discipline was Colonel House's responsibility?" Sarah sounds interested and nothing more.

"Yes, he insisted on it. John took his duties very seriously."

"Considering he was raising someone else's kid, yeah," Greg says. His mother flinches.

"I don't know why you cling to that fantasy, Greg," she says.

"I did a DNA test. He's not—he wasn't my biological father."

Silence falls in the room. Wilson looks away. Mom blushes, her face the picture of distress. Sarah says nothing; she simply waits, her gaze calm and cool.

"How did it happen? Not how it _happened._ I mean, we all know the mechanics. Tab A into slot B, bing bang, out pops a baby. What I'm asking for is the story behind it all," Greg says after it becomes clear his mother has no plan to speak first. He doesn't really want to know, he doesn't want to hear about an affair, but he's lanced the boil; now it has to be cleaned out.

"I . . ." She makes a gesture with her hand, a little helpless flutter. "I really don't know what to say."

"No one is perfect," Sarah says, her soft voice gentle. "We aren't here to sit in judgment, Mrs. House. I speak for all of us when I tell you anything you say will be held in trust; we agreed to that condition beforehand. What we are doing falls under the _aegis_ of doctor-patient confidentiality. It will never leave this room, you have our promise."

Mom sits there for a few more moments and considers Sarah’s words. "Very well. You say you want to know, and after all, John's gone now." She squares her shoulders but avoids eye contact with Greg. "Your father—I mean . . . John—he . . ." She hesitates. "He couldn't have children. We tried for several years, but nothing happened. I finally went to a doctor off-base, in another town. Everything was fine with me, so it had to be . . . Anyway, I thought we could adopt, but John wouldn't hear of it. He said everyone would know he couldn't get me pregnant, and it didn't matter whose fault it was, he would be considered less than a man because of it."

"Sounds just like him. So what happened? You threw darts at pictures? Sold candy bars with a golden ticket hidden in one of them? Played eenie meenie chili beanie?" Greg says. His mother looks pained.

"Really, Greg! It wasn't anything so vulgar or—or random. John and I discussed someone we both . . . approved of . . ." her blush deepens and she falters to a stop, then resumes the story. "I suggested . . . a certain person, and John got very angry. We argued. It . . . it became clear to me that he would deny any choice I made, because while he wanted a son, he also wanted the impossible—for the child to be truly his. And he would be jealous of anyone I put forth as a-a candidate. When I made the first suggestion, John threw around some terrible accusations . . ."

"Well, you must have done _something_ ," Greg says when she falls silent again. "I didn't get here by parthenogenesis." In his peripheral vision he sees Wilson fight a smile and knows he too remembers the idiot couple from the clinic. It seems like a lifetime ago.

"Before your father went back to Okinawa. . . it was early February of fifty-eight—we had a dreadful fight. There were . . . other factors, but mainly it was about what we'd discussed. He had decided I was not to go through with it, he couldn't . . ." She hesitates.

"He didn't like the idea of you in another man's bed," Sarah says softly. Mom gives a slow nod.

"Yes."

"But you still did it," Greg knows he and his mother approach dangerous territory now.

"He pushed me," Mom whispers. She looks like she's about to cry. "He made me think about something I never would have considered—he wanted me to be deliberately unfaithful to him, when he knew I—I took my marriage vows seriously, not like some of the wives on the base—he _pushed_ me," she draws in a breath, "and then he told me to forget it. Well, I _wouldn't_. So I . . . I went ahead with the plan."

No one speaks for a few moments.

"You got pregnant out of spite," Greg says finally. "You didn't want me. You . . . you never wanted me." That's not a new idea, but he hadn't thought it would be given such direct validation. It's as if he can't wake up from some terrible dream where he fades away, atom by atom, because no one believes he exists.

"Gregory, that is not true!" Mom is saying. She sounds desperate. "Yes--at first I resented the whole situation, the morning sickness and swollen feet and how the smell of some foods made me sick, but after a few months, when I felt you kick the first time . . . you were such an active baby." Tears glimmer in her eyes even as she smiles a little. "You would wake me up at night, you’d stick your foot straight into my bladder." Her smile widens a fraction. "I learned to love you even when you made me run for the bathroom. We kept each other company."

"It must have been difficult when your husband returned on leave and found you pregnant," Wilson says, his voice gentle.

"Oh, he was beyond furious." Mom wipes her eyes. When Sarah offers a tissue she takes it with a little nod of thanks. "We had the biggest row of our marriage. It was a nightmare. He threatened to divorce me, to tell everyone on the base I'd had a flaming affair with the other man. When I pointed out he would be humiliated by every bit of gossip he created, he flew into a rage and he . . ." She doesn't go on, but the implication is clear. _My dad hit a pregnant woman,_ Greg thinks, and knows a new surge of hatred for the man. "After that, for a long time he wouldn't . . ." She stops, wipes her eyes with care. "So now you know what happened."

"It seems to me," Sarah says in her calm way, "that even though you loved your son, the very sight of him would be a constant reminder of the untenable position in which you'd been placed. Some people might feel regret for their actions, or resentment at being forced to remember something so unpleasant."

"No," Mom says, and shakes her head. "No, I never felt that way."

"Come on," Greg says, impatient with her lies. "That's a load of crap."

"I _didn't!_ " she snaps at him. "God knows you gave me enough reason later on, but I never regretted having you!"

"Did Colonel House express any anger or dislike of Doctor House for not being his biological son?" Sarah says.

"After that last big fight he never spoke of the circumstances of Greg's birth ever again." His mother stares down at the tissue in her hand. "I know you won't believe this, but John did love you in his own way, Greg."

"You didn't answer her question," he points out. His voice is unsteady. "You know Dad hated me, he couldn't stand having me in the same room with him!"

"You goaded him into getting angry with you," Mom says. Her eyes darken with disapproval. "Nearly every time he sent you from the dinner table or took you out back, you deserved to be disciplined!"

"That's what you call 'discipline',  when your husband uses a belt to leave bloody welts on your bastard son's thighs, on his shoulders and back and arms, when he forces your son to spend the night naked in the yard with frost on the ground." The avalanche is almost upon him now. "When he submerges an eight year old in an ice bath once a day for an entire week because he caught the kid reading a cookbook and that meant he was a sissy who needed toughening up. Or he pushes boxing lessons that last for hours, so the kid comes home so bruised he can't even breathe normally because of the pain."

Wilson is pale, his dark eyes wide with shock. Sarah says nothing, but Greg knows she understands what he endured better than the other two people in the room ever could.

"Your father did what he thought was best for you," his mother says. Her tone is all too familiar—one of censure, almost dislike but not quite. "You have to admit you were an incredibly difficult child, Greg. It took extreme measures to get through to you. Anyway, you're exaggerating. What John administered was proper punishment, nothing more."

"Mrs. House, what Colonel House did absolutely qualifies as abuse. No child deserves that kind of treatment." Sarah is quiet but firm.

"Doctor Goldman, do you have children of your own?" Mom asks. Her tone borders on discourteous.

"No ma'am. I had a partial hysterectomy when I was fourteen." It is a simple statement of fact with no emotion attached to it. His mother blinks.

"Oh—well, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Sarah says, and Greg remembers her words:  _His parents had someone picked out, a nice girl. Gene defied them and chose me . . . He understands what it's like to struggle with the divide between expectations and reality._ "Please continue with what you were going to say."

"I—it's not important," Mom says.

"Please," Sarah says, with a slight smile. "I'd like to hear it."

"Well--I was going to say you can't possibly understand what it's like to raise a child so—so completely willful as Greg was. He simply wouldn't _listen_."

"I listened when it seemed like someone had something worthwhile to say," Greg says. Wilson manages a slight smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. He still looks sucker-punched by Greg's revelation. _Bet you never had anything like that happen in your house_ , Greg thinks. Then he remembers Wilson's anguish over his brother Danny. All pain is relative _._

"Why am I not surprised by that statement?" Wilson says. "Nothing's changed."

"What happened when he wouldn't listen?" Sarah asks quietly.

"I would try to get him to pay attention to me, but he was some world of his own and I could never reach him." Frustration still vibrates in her voice, in her words. "He would just walk away, or say something strange . . . for a long time I wondered if he wasn't . . . normal."

"You mean retarded," Greg says. Some part of him wants to laugh, it's just so deliciously ironic.

"And that's why Colonel House chose the methods he used," Sarah says.

"He couldn't seem to get through to Greg any other way." Mom crumples the tissue.

"How the hell would you know? You never tried anything else!" He fights the urge to shout at her but his voice grows in volume all the same. "You handed me over to him and didn't look back!"

"Do _not_ raise your voice to me, Gregory! You know very well your father had the final say in our household. Even if I'd objected, it wouldn't have made any difference!"

"It still must have been difficult to see the results of a discipline session," Sarah says. Mom looks away and says nothing. "A sedative would certainly help dull the conflicting emotions created by the antagonism between your husband and your son, especially if you had no choice except to endure the situation."

"I had trouble sleeping when John was away," Mom says, her tone adamant. Greg knows no matter how many different routes Sarah takes to this subject, his mother will never change her reply. "There was no conflict. John was the head of the household."

"Do you remember sneaking a slice of cake into my room on the nights when Dad sent me to bed without dinner?" Greg asks. His mother gives a distant nod, obviously still distracted by Sarah's probing. "If you thought I deserved everything I got, why did you do that?" She doesn't answer. He pushes her. "Why bother? Weren't you subverting Dad's authority?"

"I . . ." She sighs a little. "Greg, if you must know, it was out of pity."

That last word sinks deep inside him. He feels the weight of it; tons of snow descend at last, to smash everything he's ever believed about his relationship with his mother and break all his illusions like fragile glass. She never stood guard over him, never shared small rebellions out of a sense of shared captivity. _She really does believe I deserved it all._

An odd sort of numbness envelops him as the avalanche falls, to leave him suspended and helpless in cold darkness as he waits for the air to run out, and icy nothingness to steal him away. 


	16. Chapter 16

Greg doesn't remember the rest of the meeting, except in vague flashes. He cannot seem to focus on what people say; he sees their lips move, the concern in their eyes, but there's nothing within him that's able to respond. He is frozen in every meaning of the word, aside from the physical.

Eventually everyone goes their separate ways. Wilson takes Blythe with him, and Sarah walks with Greg to the parking lot. He barely even notices the bitter cold of the outside air. His ruined thigh throbs and pulses with pain, bright spikes of heat. For once he almost welcomes the familiar sensation. It's a distraction at least.

After a time he realizes they are in the minivan and on the Northeast Extension, headed back to New York. Sarah drives in silence. He sees her in his peripheral vision. She looks tired, but she weaves in and out of rush hour traffic with the ease of long practice. The heater blows warm air now. Greg closes his eyes and leans his head against the rest to drift into a troubled half-doze.

_(He is in his bedroom, bent over with palms pressed to the mattress. The pain has started to subside a bit now; he can concentrate on what his father says, something he'd better do quickly if he doesn't want another ten hits with the belt._

" _Your mother said the principal called and told her you stole something from the girls locker room last week, is that true?"_

_He takes a deep breath. With his peripheral vision he can see Dad off to the side. The belt dangles from his hand. " . . . yeah."_

" _The correct response is 'yes sir' or 'no sir' as you should know by now, mister I'm-so-smart. Now let me ask you again. Did you steal that girl's underwear?"_

_He struggles to make his tone more humble, and despises the necessity to do so. "Yessir."_

_Dad gives a humorless little bark of laughter. "Guess I oughta be thankful it's girls panties and not some guy's tidy whities."_

" _I'm not a homo! I—" He sees his father's smirk and stops. The cold lump of hate inside him grows a little larger. "Yessir."_

" _Your mother also said she caught you doing something with those panties. What was it?"_

_He feels the unwelcome burn of a blush heat his face. "I . . ."_

" _Please tell me you weren't_ wearing _them!"_

_The overdone anguish in Dad's voice angers him. " No sir."_

" _Then_ what _?"_

" _I . . . I was . . ."_

" _Well?"_

" _I . . . rubbed myself on them." He hears the uncertainty in his voice and winces. It will signal to his father that this is a sore spot. That's never a good thing._

" _Rubbed yourself. Otherwise known as jacked off."_

" _Yessir." He sighs silently._

" _In other words, you masturbated into a pair of girl's panties."_

" _. . . yessir."_ Here we go.

" _For chrissake, Greg! What the hell is_ wrong _with you? Do you want to get suspended again for this stupid shit you pull all the time?"_

 _He can't stop a quick flare of anger. "I don't_ care _—"_

" _WRONG answer! Wrong answer, you idiot! You ain't got the brains God gave a damn goose! The correct answer is 'yes sir, I_ do _care about being suspended from junior high AGAIN for pulling the dumbest stunt in existence!' Now say it!"_

" _I . . ."_

" _Say it or you'll get another ten with the buckle end this time, do I make myself clear?"_

_The threat stops him dead because he knows it isn't an idle one. He also remembers the last time he got the buckle. In fact, he'll never forget it. "Y-yessir, I do care about . . . being s-suspended . . ."_

" _Finish it!"_

" _F-from j-junior high again--for pulling the d-dumbest stunt in-in existence—" He struggles to keep the anger from his voice but it's hopeless._

" _SIR!" Dad's shout makes him jump._

" _Dad—"_ Don't hit me again, you fucking bastard.

" _SAY IT!"_

" _S-sir . . ." He hates that stutter with a white-hot passion, almost as much as he hates his father._

" _Suh-suh-suh-SIIIIIIR! Jesus! You can't even get the words out right, you damn whiny little pussy!" Dad sounds utterly disgusted, as usual. "Now here's what you're gonna do, and you'd better listen up good because I'm not gonna tell you twice. For the next week you're gonna wear those panties. You'll wear 'em exactly the way they are now, with your jizz all over 'em. They don't go into the trash until the end of the week, at which time you'll buy a new pair out of your allowance and present them, along with an apology, to the girl whose underwear you stole. You’ll do that in front of your entire class, I’ll make sure your teacher knows that, so don’t bother to lie to him. Also, starting right now you're grounded for a month. No TV, no music, no books, and double chores."_

 _The enormity of this punishment falls on him like a load of bricks._ No music . . . he can't do that! I have to practice, I have a recital in three days! _"Dad . . . please—"_

" _The_ only _answer you're gonna give me is 'yes sir'!"_

_He has no choice if he doesn't want things to get worse. "Y-yessir."_

" _You know what your problem is?" Here comes The Lecture. He knows it word for word by now and loathes every syllable._ " _You don't know how good you've got it. Plenty of kids would be happy to be in your shoes. You have a roof over your head, three meals a day, clothes on your back, a chance to educate yourself. That doesn't even take into account the people who have to put up with the endless amount of trouble you cause."_

" _Yessir."_ Go find some other kid to be your son then. I'd be happy to walk out the door right now and never look back.

" _I'm glad you agree. Now stop blubbering and pull up your pants. You only got ten half-assed little smacks for all the other trouble you've caused. My old man would have laughed his balls off at what passes for discipline in this fucking household."_

" _Y-yessir."_

"' _Yuh-yuh-yessir'! Fuckin' A, Greg! You're such a damn disappointment to me and your mother. I want you to stop being a disappointment, do you understand?"_

How do I do that? Would someone please tell me? I've tried and nothing seems to work. _"Yessir."_

" _Good. Now get me a cold beer and go mow the lawn. Do it right or we'll have another little talk, do I make myself clear?"_

Yeah, you're loud and clear all right. _" . . . yessir.")_

"Greg." Sarah's voice touches the last of his memory, pushes it into the darkness at the back of his mind. "I'm stopping to fill up the tank. Do you need anything?"

"Water," he says. He's so dry he can hardly speak—a side effect of the Vicodin as it wears off, and maybe something else; maybe shock. He isn't sure.

"Are you hungry?" He shakes his head. She withdraws. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, feels the van move slightly as she pumps the gas. After a while she comes back with a sack in one hand and a go-cup in the other. It smells delicious. His stomach rumbles into life and he sits up as she offers him the bag.

"I couldn't resist," Sarah says. He pulls out a plain cake doughnut and takes a small bite. It's good, warm and fragrant with vanilla and mild spice.

"I said I wasn't hungry."

"You haven't eaten since last night. I was worried," she says. "Got some coffee too."

Soon enough they're on their way once more. He finishes the first doughnut, munches another and sips the coffee; it’s milky and hot, just right. Slowly the modest meal settles and he feels better, not quite so cold.

After a while Sarah puts a CD in the player. He can't quite make out what it is, but it's bluesy, soft and low.

"You'll fall asleep," he says.

"I'm fine." She glances at him. "We're about four hours from home."

She doesn't suggest he talk, and for that he is grateful. He turns his head to look out the window at the darkness as it rushes by, and does his best not to think of anything at all.

_January 30th_

It is just after midnight when they pull into the drive. He stirs as Sarah brings the van around to the front step, puts it in park and shuts off the engine.

"Home again, home again, jiggety jig," she says, and offers him a weary smile. "Don't know about you, but I'm sleepin' in."

They go through the usual mundane rituals. Greg enters the house, removes his coat and scarf, his gloves, limps to the main fireplace in the living room as Sarah takes the bag of doughnuts to the kitchen. He stands in front of the banked fire and tries to take in some warmth, but either the embers are too weak or the ice inside him won’t allow any heat to penetrate, because he feels nothing, no change at all. He knows he should be scared, and yet somehow he just . . . isn’t.  He’s aware his return to what has become a true sanctuary for him is a good thing, and yet all he can do is go into his room and shut the door behind him. He fumbles his way to the bed and sits down, surrounded by darkness. After a moment the hot-air vent comes to life with a muted roar, a familiar white-noise sound. He reaches out and turns on the light. Everything looks the same as always—messy, lived-in, comfortable, his.

Eventually he peels off his clothes, puts on his robe, and limps to the bathroom. He takes a long hot shower, brushes his teeth. When he returns to his room he slips on a clean tee shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. He goes to his duffel and opens it, retrieves the Vicodin and puts the bottle in his pocket, then tugs the socks on his feet and heads out into the living room.

He builds a fire in the fireplace, takes his time, makes sure it's perfect: the kindling piled properly to get the crossed logs hot enough to burn. Then he sets the damper, goes to the couch and sits down slowly. He watches the flames for a long time, as they grow and flicker. Warmth pushes into the room, fragrant with the fine perfume of seasoned wood. Some part of him savors it, the sights and smells, the feel of the dry heat on his chilled flesh.

After a while he reaches into his pocket and takes out the bottle. He pops the top with his thumb and shakes tabs into his palm, stares down at them, dumps out a few more. He brings his hand to his mouth, swallows them two at a time until they're gone. He puts the empty bottle back in his pocket and lies down on the couch. The last thing he sees is the flicker of firelight, gold and scarlet as darkness gathers around him.


	17. Chapter 17

" . . . _Greg!_ "

He hears a voice but it comes from far away. He tries to ignore it, but now someone shakes him, rough and insistent. He frowns and tries to roll away. Whoever it is should just leave him alone.

" _Greg!_ Answer me, dammit!"

He has no intention to say anything, but he’s shaken even harder now and it's annoying as hell. "S . . . . st. . . op," he tries to say.

" _Gregory House!_ _YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!_ "

He is hauled to his feet. His head spins and he starts to collapse, to be caught by wiry slender arms. "Oh no you don't! You are NOT gonna crap out on me, goddammit!"

He is half-marched, half-dragged over carpeted floor onto cold tiles—the bathroom. He tries to fight as he is lowered down, left alone for a moment, but he's too disoriented to do more than flail around in an ineffectual sort of way. Something touches his lips as his head is lifted up. It's the rim of a mug. "Drink it!" Sarah snaps; he knows it's her now. She sounds angry and he flinches away from her.

 _She’ll kick me out and I’ll have nothing left_ , he thinks in a murky sort of panic. _I have to do what she says_ . . .  He takes a mouthful of something and recoils, tries to spit it out because it's hot salty water.

"Dammit! _Drink it_ , Greg! Do it!" Small fingers pinch his nose shut tight. He struggles to pull away and gasps for air, and is forced to swallow a huge gulp of the water. He gags and chokes, splutters as his stomach gives a warning heave. He tries to sit up, scrabbles for purchase, and fights as more water is dumped into him. Sweat beads his upper lip as a chill goes down his spine and saliva pools in his mouth. This won’t be pretty.

The contraction hits hard and sharp. He vomits, catches a glimpse of barely-dissolved tabs before he pukes again. He has the insane urge to reach into the toilet and grab the pills. After the fifth spasm he is aware someone holds him upright, a slender arm clasped around his middle. He shakes and his stomach tightens with small quivers; it threatens to continue the process, but gradually the urge to upchuck settles into dull, intermittent nausea and little spasms in his diaphragm.

And then he’s made to walk—more of a stumble, but he’s still supported as he’s moved forward slowly. "Where's the rest of the stash?" He is settled onto a soft surface, lies on his side. "Come on, Greg. Tell me where it is. I'll search every damn inch of you if I have to, and your room too." Sarah sounds stern, relentless.

"Pocket," he mumbles. He feels her rummage around and tug the bottle free. He closes his eyes, humiliated and ashamed.

"How many were in here? Thirty? Sixty?"

"Thirty," he says, and groans as the lids on his eyes are pried open and a bright light fills his vision. After a moment fingers press into his neck.

"How many did you take?"

" . . . ten."

"So you've been using for a while. Thought so." She doesn't sound triumphant, only resigned, and sad. "Anyway, we got them all out. I counted."

His head has already started to clear a bit, something he doesn't want. He wants numbness, nothingness, never to feel anything ever again, and he'd been on his way there. Now he's woken up, and it hurts like hell. She will tell him to leave, he knows it. This is the last straw, the mistake he can never make because it ends everything. The dread inside him builds. He has nowhere to go if she kicks him out.

"Listen to me," Sarah says a few moments later. "Your pupils are a little dilated but responsive, and your pulse and respiration are a bit sluggish but okay. Do you understand? I can get you to the medical center in five minutes if necessary, but I think you'll be all right now." He feels her weight settle in next to him. "Here, sit up a little."

Greg struggles to obey and she helps him. He moves his bad leg to prevent a spasm and finds he is stretched out on the couch.

"Okay, lie down," Sarah says quietly. When he does so he realizes his head is in her lap on a pillow. _This is weird,_ he thinks, but he doesn't pull away or sit up because it feels good to have contact with someone, to feel the warmth of a body close to his. "Are you all right? No dizziness or nausea?"

"'mokay," he mumbles. _Here it comes,_ he thinks. An interrogation will be first on the agenda, followed by lectures, sermons, remonstrations about all the trouble he's caused. Then she’ll send him away. _For chrissake, Greg!_ he hears his father say, and trembles inside at what's ahead.

"If you’re able, you can tell me what happened," Sarah says. Her voice is calm, no anger, no resentment. He waits for the rest of it but she says nothing more. Slowly he begins to understand this is what she always does, listen—really listen. He doesn't know if he can handle that. Part of him wants to remain silent forever, another part doesn't. But the words are stuck in his chest in a huge knot anyway, and he's afraid if he starts to talk he'll scream instead.

"It's all right. Take your time." Her soft tone eases his exhausted mind, an unearned benison. He tries to close himself to her compassion but there is no fight left in him now, no strength to put up barriers. And then to his utter horror, without warning the knot gives way and pain boils up, the very thing he has dreaded since he entered Mayfield months ago. Greg buries his face in Sarah's soft flannel bathrobe, presses into her belly. He clenches his teeth hard to hold in the first sob but it breaks free anyway, a harsh, loud groan that fills him with shame and disgust at his weakness. Another follows, and another until he is engulfed in agony; his body shakes as if it will fly apart. When Sarah slips her arm about his shoulders and gently brings him closer he resists, tries to pull away, but she holds him in place and after a few moments, he gives up. He lets the tears gush out, knows he is everything his father always called him: weak, pathetic, useless.

For what seems like an eternity he is racked by absolute anguish. He makes ugly, raw noises he cannot bear to hear. They escape despite his efforts to force them back inside. He shudders as fresh waves of rage and grief batter his body. It is like being trapped in a terrible storm, flung back and forth by the fury of the winds and water. He can't seem to stop, though once or twice he tries, frightened by the intensity of the emotions as they roar out of him. Sarah is the only fixed point in his universe now, the only solid reality in the midst of overwhelming pain.

After a very long time the despair ebbs, then diminishes. Gradually he becomes aware of a small hand, light but sure, as it rubs his back in slow, gentle circles through the thin material of his tee shirt. A part of him wants to smack the hand away, until it dawns on him: Sarah offers him comfort.  _So this is what it feels like,_ he thinks. It doesn’t resemble the perfunctory hugs, air kisses or hand pats he's seen or endured at funerals and other social rituals. There is purpose behind it, not false sentiment or empty display. _Intent shapes action,_ Sarah had said once. Now he understands what she means.

A memory comes back to him of his time in the hospital after he was shot, and the subsequent ketamine treatment. A CNA on the night shift had given him this same sort of attention. She'd been the one to help him sit up and drink enough juice to take his meds, emptied his Foley and assisted with sponge baths. She'd stuck with him no matter how much he'd snarled at her, patient, silent, compassionate. That was comfort too.

He falls quiet, with only the occasional hitch in his breath. The rhythm of Sarah's touch soothes him, eases the misery wedged deep in his heart and mind. He is grateful for her generous spirit, and for her willingness to endure him.

After a time she shifts her position. He burrows closer, a wordless request for her not to push him away. He cannot bear the idea of being alone, not yet. There will be plenty of time for that later.

"Shhh . . ." She puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, Greg. Just gonna pull down the blanket." A few moments later he feels the soft throw settle over him, smells lavender laundry soap and wood smoke, and relaxes as warmth steals through his body.

"Thank you," he says. His voice is rough and low, ravaged after so much emotion.

"You're welcome," she says quietly, and he slides into exhausted sleep.

 

Sarah slipped a pillow behind her back and tried to ignore the pressure in her bladder. She could probably risk a quick trip to the bathroom; Greg was asleep now, a residual effect of the Vicodin overdose and emotional trauma. But if he woke and she wasn't there . . . She could handle this for a few more hours. She put her hand on Greg's back and was reassured to feel his slow, even breathing.

 _Thank god I came down to check on him. Now I have to find out where he got the damn drugs. If he had this squirreled away in something that came up from storage, or he brought it with him . . . I'll have to search his room. And the downstairs bathroom, and the office. His old apartment will need to be checked again too. Jim said it was searched pretty thoroughly at least twice, but . . . Guess I'll have to do it. It takes an addict to know where all the real hiding places are._ She sighed softly and closed her eyes as exhaustion began to take over from her earlier massive jolt of fear. _God, that was close._ She didn't think this was a serious attempt at suicide, more a bid to recreate the numbness of not remembering. Still, if she'd been even fifteen minutes later . . .

 _I should have taken him to the medical center, but then he'd be written up as an OD and that would screw with his chances to get the surgery and regain his license. At least this way the incident will exist officially only in my case notes. We can deal with any committees or inquiries when we come to them._ She tipped her head back against the couch cushion and let the need for sleep take over at last. _I wish Gene was here_ was her last coherent thought.


	18. Chapter 18

Greg wakes slowly, confused. He is curled on his side; his ruined leg is stiff, it’s been bent in one position too long. Something soft cradles his head and upper body; there is a slender arm about his shoulders.

"How are you?" Sarah says quietly. She gives him a gentle hug and moves a little so he can sit up. He does so and finds he's lightheaded, his face and eyes swollen. She examines him with a few deft touches, then tucks the blanket around him. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If you need me, call. I'm here, okay?" There is no condescension in her voice, just a simple statement of fact. Greg shivers as the cool air of the living room brushes his skin when he shifts to let Sarah stand. He knows a stab of fear when she leaves his line of sight. What if she disappears and never comes back?

"I'm right here," her soft voice reaches him, and he relaxes.

For a long time he listens to Sarah as she moves around the house. He feels strange—hollow, as if his insides have been removed. A great weariness seeps through his body, makes him numb. He welcomes it, knowing it won't last, much as he wants it to.

When Sarah returns she has a tray with two steaming cups, some toast and what appears to be a folded washcloth. She sets the tray on the coffee table and picks up the cloth, then hands it to him. "Wash your face," she says.

"I'm not three years old," he mutters, but he takes it and does as she says. The wet, rough fabric smells faintly of soap. Afterward he does feel a little better. When he's done she offers him one of the cups. It turns out to be hot sweet tea. He is not all that fond of the drink, but it does ease the cramp in his stomach.

"You . . ." His voice is rough and gravelly, his throat sore. "You made me drink something salty."

"Baking soda in hot water," she says. "If you want more tea I'll get the pot."

A few sips are enough, however. He refuses the toast; the thought of food is too much at the moment. Sarah replaces the plate on the tray, pulls the pillow in her lap and pats it. "Put your head down," she says. He stares at the pillow. Part of him longs to do as she asks, but another part is afraid at the same time. "It's all right, Greg."

Slowly he obeys her. When the blanket is settled over him once more he watches her, he can't help it. He has to know what her motive is in doing this. What does she want? Sarah looks down at him. There is no pity, only that quiet compassion he has come to know and depend on. Her fingers touch his neck to take his pulse. Then her hand rests on the join of his neck and shoulder. Her palm is warm and dry. He reaches up and clasps her wrist, notes her heartbeat is steady and strong. He slowly pushes up the sleeve of her bathrobe to reveal the cartouche tattoo and some of the scars she keeps hidden. He studies them, knows they are the visible reminder of terrible moments in her life, of pain and despair and helplessness, and her will to redeem herself from those memories.

"How did it happen?" he says. She looks at him, to see if he can handle it. Apparently he can.

"I was eleven," she says at last. "It was a bad summer. My cousin was making nocturnal visits to my bedroom a couple of times a week and my parents were trying to kill each other, when they weren't drunk or stoned or stealing money from someone. I was stuck in the middle of it, with no way to escape. My brothers were out of the house by then, but they wouldn't have helped me anyway. So I started cutting. It took the edge off things." She pauses. "My dad caught me on the back porch. I was sitting in the sun, at least I remember the sun on my face. I was probably high, usually was at that age, just took whatever I could find or steal. Never got drunk, though. That I wouldn't do. Didn't have the taste for it." She is silent for a moment, her gaze distant and cool. "I had an exacto knife. It was a good tool—nice and sharp, clean edge, made it easy to control how deep the cuts were. I was pretty much a wimp about going into the muscle. Mostly did skin layers, just enough to bleed a little. I even had some rubbing alcohol. It stung like hell and that helped gate the pain too."

Greg senses a residual sorrow in her for the memories she tells him, but there is no anger, no bitterness. _How can she just accept this?_ he wonders. _How can she live with this?_ "You took drugs," he says aloud.

"Yes," she says. "I'm an addict. Clean for thirty years, but that could change tomorrow.

"Anyway, Dad couldn't help but see me because I was parked by the screen door and the beer fridge was right there. I wanted to get caught, more than likely. God knows why, I knew what would happen if Dad ever discovered what I was doing. It was probably the start of my out-and-out rebellious phase, though that didn't kick into high gear until a couple of years later. At any rate, he dragged me into the kitchen and made me sit at the table with my arm stretched out. He said I couldn't cut hot butter, so he'd give me a demonstration on how to do things right and proper. Then he found a steak knife. He got mad because I fought and made him go too deep." She pauses. "At the ER, he told them I ran into a glass door."

"No doctor in their right mind would believe that story," Greg says. He struggles with the image of a young girl in horrible pain, covered with blood and terrified, as she listens to her father lie to the people who were supposed to help her. Sarah shrugs a little.

"Things were different back then. And it was a rural hospital. I'm sure the staff saw plenty of chronic abuse and domestic violence cases. The only thing they could do was patch people up and send ‘em back into a bad situation. It's better not to care when you can't do anything to stop whatever's going on."

He feels his own memories clamor as they try to rise to the surface. He fights them, tries to push them away.

"Greg," she says softly. "If you want to talk, I'm listening."

He does his best to focus, push everything away or down or out of his mind but it won’t work, he's broken that old coping mechanism beyond repair, at least for the moment.

"It's all right," she says. "Take your time."

He shifts onto his side, this time away from her. He lowers her arm and folds it across his chest, feels the twisted ridges of her scars through his tee shirt. Somehow the presence of those scars comforts him. Her hand clasps his and gently brings him close. It makes him feel safe—utterly ridiculous, but true all the same. Within the protective circle of her embrace he tries hard not to think about what's happened, but it breaks into his mind anyway. It goes on and on, an endless vision of his miserable, dismal childhood and youth, and how he knows now his mother was not an ally.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks finally, after what seems like hours. His head throbs and his eyes are hot and itchy. "No one . . . people can't stand being around someone like me." He hears his father, a faint echo in his memory: _you're a damn disappointment, Greg_. "I don't know why you bother." Even as he says it he holds her tightly, afraid she will push him away.

"You have people who love you," Sarah says. "They just don't know how to do it unconditionally." She settles in and brings him a little closer. "You deserve to be loved, Greg."

"I'm a pathetic asshole," he says. "I've been that way since birth."

"You were born an innocent baby like everyone else," she says. "Your mind works differently, and your parents didn't understand that. The people around you, they don't get it either. You don't fit their idea of normal."

"I treat people like shit," he says.

"Well, you aren't one to bother with niceties, that's true." He hears the smile in her voice and flinches.

"It's not a joke!" He is appalled to hear himself growl at her, he hadn’t meant to do that, but he can’t get a hold on his emotions; it’s as if they’re out of his control now.

"No, it's not." Her body heat radiates into him and warms his cold insides; her scars give him a strange sense of presence, of realness. She doesn't sound upset, nor does she tense up or let go of him. "I'm not mocking you. You're who you are, Gregory, just like everyone else. And I know you are worth loving." He is silent, unable to believe her. "Why do you think I offered to work with you after Mayfield let me go?" Her free hand comes to rest just above his forehead with the lightest of touches, and he is surprised to find that simple act eases his anxiety. He doesn't answer her, though. "I came back because I know some part of you wants out of the endless misery. I don't want to change you, Greg, or fix you. But you need to get out of your own way. I said it before, and it still stands. I'd like to see you find some peace. You deserve it. You're worth it."

"You think if you keep saying that it'll make it true," he mutters.

"I already know it's true. Convincing you is the hard part, son." The affection in her voice is genuine. After everything he's done to her, she is still willing to take him on.

"You're a moron." He closes his eyes. A tear manages to escape and makes a slow path down his cheek. He can't believe he's got any tears left.

"Sometimes, yeah. But not about this."

He gives a soft, juddering sigh as something inside assents, just a bit, to her reassurance. "Don't know what will happen now," he says after a long time.

"You'll start remembering things," she says. "Things you've pushed deep down inside."

"I . . . I can't." He shakes at the thought. "I can't."

"Yes you can," she says. "You can tell me. I'm here to listen, anytime, anywhere."

"It isn't that," he says, and tries to find the words. "I . . . _can't_."

"Who told you not to tell? Who told you to forget?" Sarah asks after a moment, and he relaxes a little more. Of course she understands.

"Everyone," he says.

"How?" she says, and he knows she truly wants him to tell her about his history, the secret history he's never told anyone. So he tells her about the moments after discipline sessions when his father would push him up against a wall in a choke hold and whisper in his ear, and warn him of what would surely happen if he ever spoke of his disgrace to anyone else, if he ever dared to humiliate the family by talking openly about his well-deserved punishments. He tells her of the times when his mother would leave the room and not look back, when she would deny the bruises on his legs or arms or his face, or turn his pain into a joke—everything he accused her of at the meeting. And he remembers but doesn't speak of the moments in casual conversation when he would say something a little too close to the truth and Wilson or Cuddy or Stacy would shy away, while their body language shouted _I don't want to know!_ Remembrance brings back the frustration, the humiliation and fury and fear. When he finishes he’s unable to go on.

"I can't talk about it," he says.

"Yes you can," Sarah says. "You've already started, Greg. I can show you how to keep going."

"It's pointless," he says. "Bringing up this garbage—all it does is make things worse."

"It's not pointless," she says. "You feel rough for a while when you start to remember, but it gets better. Telling frees you."

"If that's true, then you tell me something from the bad times that you've never told anyone else," he says after a while. That tight knot in his stomach is back. "Prove it to me."

Sarah doesn't speak for a few moments. When she does, her voice sounds different—less calm, more hesitant. "I mentioned the partial hysterectomy at the meeting. That isn't the whole story. I've never told anyone that at the age of fourteen, I got pregnant."

He is silent; he doesn’t know what to say.

"I went to a free clinic and told the doctor I was having trouble with my period. She examined me, gave me a scrip for vitamins and asked me to make an appointment for prenatal classes."

"You carried to term," he says.

"No. I . . . I tried to get rid of it." Her voice thickens. When he looks at her, there are tears in her eyes. He can see now she is utterly exhausted, her face pale with weariness. A pang of guilt goes through him at his selfishness, but he still asks for more from her.

"How?"

"I drank some herbal tea. It worked, but not completely. I ended up in the ER half-dead from blood loss and shock . . . stupid girl. Stupid, arrogant, careless girl." She stops to wipe her cheeks as the tears spill over. Her hand shakes. "It was early enough in the pregnancy that no one really knew what was going on. One of the nurses probably suspected because she kept giving me strange looks, but she didn't say anything. When the doctors told me I needed a hysterectomy, I couldn't agree fast enough."

"An adult had to authorize the surgical procedure," he says.

"My cousin's wife brought me in, of all people." She gives a watery snort. "The ironies of life. Her husband banged me for years and she was the one who got me the surgery."

"She knew," he guesses. Sarah nods.

"Yes, but it was easier for her to pretend she didn't. It was selfish, but also very human."

"That's bullshit!" He cannot contain his outrage, his own pain forgotten for the moment. "Your family tore you to shreds, literally! Besides the damn scars—you had a piece of yourself removed that took away your choice to have a family—there's no accepting that!"

"I didn't accept it," she says. "It's been a secret all this time." A fresh tear falls down her cheek, followed by another. "There hasn't been a day when I haven't thought of that child and the . . . the terrible thing I did." He can barely hear her now. "I killed my own baby."

He makes an impatient noise and takes her hand in a clumsy grip. "It wasn't a baby. It probably wasn't much more than a clump of cells. You were a scared, traumatized kid. You did what you thought you had to."

"I just wanted out of it all with no inconvenience to me." There is such sadness in her voice. "Selfish little bitch."

"Stop it," he says, his words harsh. "You were afraid. Fear makes people do stupid things. I can vouch for that fact personally. You make allowances for everyone but you when you were just being human too, if that's how you want to look at it."

Her hand tightens on his. He watches her struggle with what she remembers and what he's said. After a long while she says, "Thank you for asking me to tell you about this. Thanks for listening too, and some good advice. It means a lot." She sounds calmer.

"I won't tell anyone else," he says.

"It's okay. It's not a secret now. I'm glad it isn't."

He lies in the haven of warmth and security she has provided, and thinks about what she's said. He's not sure he can ever be free in the way she's shown him, but he'd like to try.

"I don't want to hurt anymore," he says after a long silence.

"Then that's where we'll start." 


	19. Chapter 19

She had to search his room, of course. It was the one unspoken exception to the 'no exceptions' privacy rule. Greg was fully aware of this, if his hunched shoulders and stoic expression were anything to go by.

He sat in the doorway on a kitchen chair and watched as she proceeded with a methodical thoroughness that would make any DEA agent proud. Sarah was careful not to be thoughtless or callous. She treated his things with respect, put items back where she found them, and resisted the urge to change his sheets, collect dirty clothes or gather up used cups, plates and silverware.

"No room service?" Greg said when it was clear she'd finished. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, tired to the bone. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she'd actually gotten anything resembling real sleep.

"I charge extra for laundry. Tableware is negotiable. No lap dances though."

He rolled his eyes. "What's next on the list?"

"Bathroom and then office," she said. As he started to stand she caught the defensive, guilty glance he shot her way. "Wait a minute," she said. "My apologies. Please sit down."

Greg froze. Then he obeyed, and grimaced as his leg protested the movement. Sarah perched on the edge of his easy chair. She made sure she didn’t face him head-on.

"I want you to understand what's going on here," she said. He wouldn't look at her, arms folded tight over his chest. "This is not a punishment."

"Could have fooled me," he muttered.

"Your overdose was a response to being pushed too far too fast. It was part of a relapse. They happen." He did lift his gaze to hers then, his red-rimmed eyes sharp with disbelief. He looked as exhausted as she felt; she noticed his features were thinner, almost gaunt. He'd lost weight in the last few days.

"So it was just a little boo-boo," he said, his voice harsh.

"You were trying to get away from the pain," she said.

"If everything's so logical, that doesn't explain why you're treating me like a criminal," he snapped.

"Am I?" she said, and used a mild tone of inquiry. "What makes you think that?"

Greg looked away. "I get it. All that nauseating cuddling was just to soften me up for this exercise in humiliation." Sarah kept her body language relaxed. _He deflected. No surprises there._

"Searching these rooms is necessary," she said quietly. "I trust you. I do," she said when he snorted and shook his head. "Implicitly."

"Thus the dog and pony show. You're a liar." He almost spat the words at her.

"I trust _you_." She smiled a little. "The addiction, that's a different story."

He frowned. "That makes no sense."

"Addiction is a disease, in some cases probably a genetic predisposition. It's like having MS or asthma. There are certain symptoms that accompany the condition, one of which is hiding drugs or alcohol or whatever. We're treating the symptom." She paused. "You suffer from an illness, Greg. Don't make it more than that."

He considered her words, his expression blank, but she could almost hear his mind spin as he dissected and analyzed her observation. "There has to be an end to it," he said after a while. Sarah let go a held breath.

"Thirty days," she said. "I'll have to administer all medications and there will be continued searches, but you have my promise," she said when he groaned, "you will never have to beg for your meds, ever. If you need help with breakthrough pain, tell me. I know the difference between addiction and dependence. I also know your pain is real. The searches will be private, never when anyone else is here."

"I need something right now." It was half-defiant, half-something else.

"Okay," she said. "As long as you eat some dinner too. No meds on an empty stomach."

"You've still got two more rooms to do," he reminded her.

"They can wait." She stretched and stood up. "Let's see what we can pull out of the fridge."

She found a big container of leftover chicken soup and some rolls. While everything heated, she offered Greg his pregabalin and high-dose ibuprofen. When she handed him the bottles he glanced at her, his surprise plain. "I have to watch," she said, "but you can do the heavy lifting yourself." He accepted them with ill grace, but beyond a grumble under his breath he didn't give her a hard time. She kept her own attitude matter of fact, and eventually he relaxed a bit.

Soup was the right choice. Sarah dunked her roll in the savory broth, and enjoyed the simple meal. Greg ate without enthusiasm, but he managed most of a bowlful before he put down his spoon. He looked a little better now though; some of the tension left him as the meds and hot food did their work.

She had him sit in the doorway again as she began with the bathroom. "Keeping me where you can see me," he said with considerable sarcasm. Sarah straightened and wiped sweat from her forehead.

"Yes," she said. "But you're also here to make sure I don't mess around with your stuff."

That seemed to disconcert him. He played with his cane, let the rubber slip-guarded end give the tiles a series of soft thumps.

"You . . . you wouldn't do that," he said to the floor. Sarah schooled her features to impassivity, but inside she jumped up and down and shouted _YES YES YES! FINALLY!_

"I wouldn't," she agreed. "But you still have the right to keep an eye on me." She crouched under the sink and ran her fingers along the basin inset seam. She fought not to giggle like a crazy woman.

"You're smiling. I don't know what for." Greg sounded wary.

"Nothing under here," she said, and moved a bottle of cleanser.

The office took a great deal longer to go through. By the time she'd finished his books it was close to eleven and she wanted nothing more than to crawl off somewhere and sleep forever. Greg watched her, took in every move as she replaced reference texts and bound journals with care. When she sat at his desk he averted his gaze. She understood; this was his private domain, a sacred space for someone who defined himself solely by his ability to produce flawless work. She opened the first drawer, felt along the underside of the desktop, and frowned. Something slid under her fingertips. She grasped whatever it was and gave a gentle tug. A paper, discolored and stained, came loose to lie in her hand. Not just one—it appeared to be several envelopes with faded writing on them, all tied together with a thin, frayed ribbon.

"What's this?" She examined the scant bundle. "These look like letters. Greg, I apologize—if you had something personal tucked away . . ."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sarah brought them over to him. He examined the papers with care, then handed them back to her. "Not mine."

She didn't take them. "They are now."

He glanced up at her, surprise mingled with annoyance. "Why?"

"Why not?" She smiled a little. "I'll bet anything there's an interesting reason behind their being hidden away, and you're the person to discover it."

He stared at the papers for a moment. Then without further comment he set them in his lap. Sarah turned back to her work.

It was well after one when she unfolded the last carpet corner and pushed it into place, sat back on her haunches, scraped a hand over her unruly curls and let out a deep sigh. "Done," she said. There was no answer. She pivoted a little to look at the doorway. Greg was out cold, his head propped against the doorjamb. Sarah studied him; he so rarely gave her a chance to see him with his defenses down, she couldn't resist. Even relaxed in sleep his features held a resigned sadness that made her heart ache. She remembered him desolate and devastated, huddled tightly against her as he wept in wild bursts that clearly frightened him. He'd been so hungry for her comfort, and yet unable to ask for or even believe he deserved it . . . With reluctance she rejected an urge to dig up John House's corpse and feed it to a wood chipper, and got to her feet. She had to use the desk as leverage. The wood creaked as she leaned on it and Greg was awake in an instant. His bright blue gaze pinned her with startled intensity.

"Done," she said again, and yawned. "I'm really sleepin' in this time. See you in the morning." As he got up to let her out of the room she said with just the right amount of casual innocence, "By the way, you can search upstairs tomorrow. I'll sleep on the couch tonight. I brought down everything I need, and you can check that as well before you go to bed."

Greg stared at her. "You . . . want _me_ to do a drug check on _you_ ," he said slowly.

"I'm an addict too," she reminded him.

"You don't know I won't pocket whatever I find. I could go up there tonight while you're sleeping."

"I get to watch you," she said. "Same as you did with me. If you go up there unsupervised, that means I have to search your rooms all over again in the morning." She sighed. "I really hope you're not serious."

"This is _nuts_ ," he said, his tone incredulous. "It would be easier just to send me back to Mayfield."

"There's a method to my madness." She got to her feet with a groan as cramped muscles protested. "Okay, that's it. Off to bed."

A short while later she sat on the couch in her flannel pjs and bathrobe, torn between amusement and exhausted irritation. She was too tired to fall asleep. With a sigh she got up and went to the corner cabinet where her guitar was stored.

 

He’s just started to drift off when he hears music from the living room. Sarah plays the Martin six-string. She strums soft chords; they sound sad and tender at the same time. After a moment he recognizes the melody, an old folk lullaby. Annoyance fills him, but only for a moment. Something deep inside whispers that she's doesn’t play it for anyone living. This is for her lost child, the baby she had for such a brief time, the only baby she'll ever have. As the song continues he hears his mother say _I learned to love you . . . we kept each other company._

 _Two examples of the inevitable fallout from the divide between expectations and reality,_ he thinks. He slips into sleep accompanied by the sound of Sarah's grief, and a quiet, unspoken request for forgiveness that will never be answered.


End file.
